Credo Quia Absurdum
by tadakatsu14
Summary: Six months after Cioccolata joins Passione, he sets into motion the first of several steps in the realization of a horrifically grandiose fantasy. Cioccolata and Secco abduct two out of eight women—one of which a minor—who are bound to become sex slaves/pets within his obsessively planned rape dungeon and harem. The story evolves into his future ambitions of overthrowing the Boss.
1. Chapter 1

**-AUTHOR'S NOTE & WARNINGS-**

I've recently come to feel it would be important for me to write a detailed note regarding the nature and direction this fic is going as pre-established in my mind. If you feel this note is TL;DR; the fault is your own if you stumble upon any content you don't appreciate. Please heed all tags as they represent all content that IS and WILL BE in this fic if it is not already.

First off, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure and all characters including the main character of this fic, Cioccolata, belong to Hirohiko Araki. I am not making any money from writing this. My love for the series and Cioccolata is the only thing that drives my hand. There are numerous OCs in this fic which obviously belong to me.

Please appreciate that this fic is incredibly long & quite frankly, an emotional roller-coaster. With that all said, please note that each chapter is rather long. This is a work in progress & I upload each month-month and a half. 8-12k words is around the mean for length. If this sounds like it's too much for you to handle and read through, this story is not for you.

I have established this story to closely follow the canon timeline as much as possible, spanning 1999, as well as the events of Vento Aureo. In the latter, key canon events are rewritten to my narrative. This does include the deaths of major characters with the exception of Trish (and Coco Jumbo). It's no secret that in my retelling, per the summary; Cioccolata becomes Godfather of Passione. Several key factors about him are revealed. This includes early childhood development, family, mid-adulthood and involvement into BDSM & his submissives, as well as his worklife/drama (doctor days). As for events AFTER Vento Aureo, this fic covers events over 10 years into the future, the focus then being his rise to power as Godfather.

SEVERAL chapters include Cioccolata doing seemingly mundane tasks, such as going to the grocery store, cooking, playing with Secco, browsing his online profiles and emails, journaling, and of course, getting his feet rubbed by one of the girls in his harem. While these things may be uninteresting to you, they are VERY interesting to me. What is my purpose for this? I am illustrating the human in him which I believe NEEDS to be understood. Keep in mind that this story is highly psychological and detailed—this is horror-comedy-porn in a nutshell, though there are romantic elements, including 2 OTPs with Cioccolata.

Here is a list of the most major themes/tags which are either reemerging or may come across as HEAVY for some audiences. If any of these are uncomfortable to the point that you CANNOT tolerate reading about it, I would not advise this fic, especially since I have a habit of writing in painstaking detail.

*RAPE/GANG RAPE/HOSTAGE SITUATIONS & TORTURE; _either literal, non-con, & bribing._

*HEAVY BDSM & SEXUAL CONTENT; _There is hardly a chapter in this fic which does not contain sexual content, tone, implied, or sexual tension building. Cioccolata is also shown to be very much into S&M, which I would think is a given of his character. Please appreciate that I will not list every single tag in the smut category, trust that numerous fetishes are explored._

*BLOOD, GORE & DISTURBING THEMES; _this should be a given, but again, I tend to write meticulously._

*HEAVY MISOGYNY & SEXISM; _This is another one I would consider to be a given with Cioccolata and the reoccurring rape & harem content._

*HAREMS; _A large portion of the theme of this fic is Cioccolata gathering a harem of 8 women who were initially forced into it._

*PROSTITUTION, PIMPING & SEXUAL SLAVERY; _Another reoccurring theme that is either written about in detail or implied._

*DRUG USAGE & IMPLIED ADDICTION; _A common theme._

*DOMESTIC VIOLENCE/WOMEN BEATING; _Yet another HUGE reoccurring theme of this fic, either by Cioccolata or other males throughout._

*SEXUAL CONTACT & RAPE WITH MINORS; _Again, this is a given. This is Cioccolata. Age of consent in Italy is 15._

*REFERENCES TO MENTAL ILLNESS SPECIFICALLY PSYCHOPATHY

*_All other listed tags that stand out as HEAVY are not as reoccurring as the ones I have listed, that is—they are held by the plot within their respective chapters._*

In conclusion, I've given more than enough warning in order to avoid any type of flaming and triggers. As a reminder, this is my fanfic, so I will write it as I see fit. If you don't like Cioccolata in the slightest, please leave. If you were too triggered to handle his character in anime, DON'T think you'll be able to handle him in this, or you WILL be sorely mistaken. I have 0 tolerance for expressed hatred for his character.

I digress, if you share the same affection for Cioccolata's character as I do, please enjoy my contribution to him! Quality works for him is severely lacking.

* * *

"_World renowned failure at both death and life_

_Given nothingness, purgatory blight_

_To run and hide, a cowardly procedure_

_Options exhausted, except for anesthesia - anesthesia_

_I don't feel anything." ~Anesthesia, Type O Negative_

* * *

_._

_The tapered road that greeted these same tires over the past year __now felt the underlying fury of the driver for the very first time. The man driving this white Rolls-Royce was a doctor until today—finally having just reached the peak of his medical career, only to have been terminated by a careless mistake._

_It was his mistake, his doing, an intentional mistake, a regrettable one. It was paid for by a lengthy court hearing, a tremendous fine, the confiscation of his license to work within the field, the scorning eyes of the loved one's family, of people who worked alongside him, of anyone and everyone in the hearing, but worst of all—the lowering of his own pride, of stuffing his true thoughts deep inside, lowering himself to the level of a lesser man, having to pretend to have any remorse at all. Orchestrating a play of ignorance to common procedure; a dishonesty and cruel manipulation that in normal circumstances, would not bother him in the slightest. Until now. _

_As the tires reached the old familiar empty slot of land before the lake, he knew his home was just a few more kilometers, knew to slow down to a sharp, easily missed turn to the left, straight past the gate and into his estate. _

_He pulled in, barely caring to close his gate now that he was home. Only caring to retreat into his abode which will soon become his cave for the next three, unemployed months. A white loafer stepped out of the vehicle; a long and thin leg wrapped in brown dress pants. The man stepped out and straightened himself to his full six-foot-three inch height. The man was a refined and handsome 32-year-old Cioccolata. He marched toward his door, all shoulders thrown forward and head first, the same urgency he once walked the hospital halls…now into what? _

_He thought as he entered his luxurious estate, that there was no longer a purpose. How was he even going to afford his way of living anymore? What other work could he even find that rivaled the wages he was so accustomed to? And who would even hire him now? He did not stay in the antechamber even long enough to remove his shoes, a habit he bought into originally for the sake of his rugs and carpets. As of now, all care left him. _

_He passed the alcove of his parlor and went straight away to his left, his walk directed to the dark wood baluster railing of the winding staircase. In no time, he made it up to the deliberately thin, dark corridor—designed for his own sense of gloomy aesthetic. He did not go straight to his bedroom, but instead to his study. _

_In here was the coziest day room for him, his personal retreat before anywhere else in his home. Everything else secondary to this, or according to his mood. His study was most personal. All literature he had planned to read, had already read, and, of course, his snuff films, were located here. Not only that, but all work-related documents, wordy medical books and encyclopedias only a maniacal doctor would keep, along with his own private journals—were all kept here. None entered but him, and none would ever, but him. When he now slowly walked toward his desk in the crook, beside a tall floor candelabra, he pulled out the chair, which gently glided across the wood floor, and seated himself. _

_His elbows hit the desk first, then, his large hands swallowed up his face. He didn't see anything nor feel anything for an entire minute, before his thoughts disturbed him again. He only briefly distracted himself before it consumed him again; he looked at his pocket-sized phone, checking for any texts or voicemails from his patient—now former. Not just his patient. His servant, follower; his only friend. An accomplice; his partner in crime. None, not a single one. What did he expect?_

_My patient… he thought. Then his thoughts nagged him again, like a demon on his shoulder. _

_That kid is the only thing I have left of my old life… my career… His green eyes stared down at the phone lying in his palm, almost looking like another one of his victims, praying for him to extend a mercy that never came. He had to hold onto him. He was all he had left now. He just knew that he had to take him under his wing indefinitely. _

_And the images from earlier hammered him yet again. But he refused to dwell in it, that humiliation. And the absolute idiots; self-righteous motherfuckers who had felt so puffed up over convicting him of a medical malpractice, meanwhile they were too fucking stupid to connect any other patient's deaths on his watch. Stupid! Simpletons! Oh, if only they could know what he did, that he was not only unapologetic over the man's death, but rather he enjoyed every minute of it! If only they knew that his tears and apologies in there were pulled out of his ass! Of course not! They're all too retarded to have known that they all fell into his genius repertoire! _

_He would have gone to jail for sure if they connected anything. If they had the fucking stones in them to do so given their rat brains! Although, it was only four of his patients, the last man included. All this trouble, for only four people in total. Was it worth it? Why did he have to sneak around with his true desires like this? Two whole years of finally having full freedom in his profession to only have killed four people directly! The elderly when he was a teen were all indirect deaths; how long would he have to keep stifling his nature, when it only grows stronger the older he gets? _

_His eyes now were almost lit on fire, he felt his hand clenching his phone, felt it crack, then exclaimed, "God dammit!" _

_So he placed his phone back in his pocket. He didn't want to break it. His partner and him needed to be able to reach each other. And then his eyes settled on a small wooden stool at the middle of one of his bookshelves. He only used it to get a better look at the very top shelf. But given how tall he was, along with having long arms, he rarely used it. _

_Why did I leave it in the middle like that…? he thought to himself, with an irrational obsession of the placement. He continued thinking to himself like a maniac. What is the purpose of that stool? Why do I even have it? What is the meaning of it? It has no purpose here! _

_And he went mad. The image of the wooden stool burned in his mind's eye, it turned around, around and around. He stood up from his seat now and stared down at it. It was so much smaller than him. It was insignificant. And something about it made him angrier. Not only did it not serve any practical purpose, but it appeared to him as if it were weak, and this drove him to become disgusted with it. _

_Not only is it useless then… but it's weak, it's pathetic! He thought, and then, in a rage, he stomped it to pieces. The pieces flew everywhere, possibly some even flew upon the bookshelves, mummifying themselves within the crevices of books God only knows if or when he would open again to find. For twenty seconds, the bang of stomps and breaking wood circled his study. But the murder of the sorry stool went on unnoticed by any. None but the dust mites witnessed this outburst of the sudden utilitarian extremist. _

_The small swollen legs cracked and broke completely in imitation of breaking bones, and the horrifying sound could easily be morphed into the sound of cries—easily traumatizing the anthropomorphic attributing soul of a child. _

_When he finished, he stared down at what he done, but unlike how he would stare down at his human victims, this time, there was no barbaric, perverted smile plastered across his face. Instead, he felt nothing for what he had done. This is somewhat inaccurate to say, however. He always felt nothing of the remorseful sort for what he had ever done. Rather now, he felt not even satisfied with it, or joy. _

_He took a seat again, having expelled some violent energy, he could think again. He fell back into his thoughts, hopefully not to stir up another episode, and hopefully another piece of harmless furniture would not be losing its life. _

_They think they've gotten rid of me. They're wrong. I'll kill again. I'd rather die myself, than to live a tamed life. What was the meaning of all this anyway? What it his Saturn return? The loss of his career? What else was next? _

_He crossed his arms on his desk, looked down at his finger nails. And soon after he felt a headache coming on. But he wasn't going to take an aspirin, for he rarely took any medicine despite his now former profession. Like many doctors, he did not ascribe fully to the doctrine of his practice, would not recommend himself the medications and modern medicine panacea he sold. His lack of empathy however, and concern over his own well being only, allowed him to spew lies and quack remedies whilst still sleeping good at night. _

_The world may say he is no longer a doctor, but he knew that he still was, and he still always will be. It was not denial. It was a part of his spirit which could never be removed by any man or congregation of men. And only this thought, brought him somewhat of a solace. It could not be fully understood why Cioccolata felt so passionate and prideful to call himself a doctor. Afterall, he didn't aspire to become one for the sake of helping or healing others; the baseline for determining if it were a suitable profession for an individual. _

_But his now extremely erratic mind swung back it's pendulum. It's an illusion… he thought, and continuing in his self-pity, he thought again: It's absolute misery, like this. To be like this, when I love my job… It can't be over… _

_Having become a doctor finally, after so much long study, now being a full fifteen years since he had begun his medical journey, not counting his volunteer work beforehand, left him in absolute misery. Cioccolata was an easy workaholic; his career was not only his life but his wife. As such, he grieved the loss, ironically, like a loved one does after an unfortunate accident. Such as the one he had just allegedly committed. _

_He made sure to space out those patients who he had killed, which, in the last two years since he had the freedom to do so, did not amount to many. He got too full of himself. He never thought he could be caught. He covered his tracks so well… but his head had grown too big apparently. And this failure of foresight would forever be on his conscience and he would be constantly reminded of it. _

_The misery of it! How could he live now!? He lowered his face into his crossed arms, resting the bridge of his nose against his forearms which were encased in a pale, creamy yellow blouse. In this moment then, something more insane happened than his own homicidal nature. Tears poured out of his eyes, totally uncontained, and with enough force that it sent him soon into sobs. He spent close to forty seconds on this meltdown. And suddenly, just as they began, they had ended; the floodgates had closed. _

_Yes… I want to kill. It's the only thing I love in his world. This sickening world, this clown world; a world full of losers. Weaklings. Trash. I want to be the one to end it, to cleanse it. I want the world ridden with Death, but if only I could! How can I now!? If only I could… somehow destroy all life, one by one… If only one corpse could make a chain, like a puzzle; just one body, and then the whole city, the whole country, then the world. Oh yes… Peace and serenity, that's what it would give me. It would make me so happy… like nothing else in this life has. _

_He lifted his face from his desk finally, with red eye-lids, framing now the clearest, most beautiful, true green eyes. And one final thought rested through his mind, gave him strength to move forward, like he had all his life, and like he would now; to overcome. _

_I'm not crying because I am weak. And I'm not crying because I regret what I've done; I regret nothing. I'm crying only because I want to kill again. Because I know I must. Because destroying the weak is my sacred duty. Because…I am Cioccolata. _

* * *

_**.**_

_**Capitolo I: **_

_-Cioccolata's stupra dungeon-_

_Near Rome, Italy—18, September 1999_

Cioccolata was sitting back on his leather recliner within the parlor of his estate, chuckling to many big, fat stacks of eight-hundred-million lira in total. This would have been a cliché scene had it been a simple-minded gangster. However, the money itself was not the reason he was chuckling so hard, rather what it represented. A grand goal of his had finally been reached, this large sum the result of a job he'd undertaken in Naples from the Boss; the headquarters of Passione.

It can be added, this was indeed, a very satisfying job for him. So satisfying, it could hardly be called work for him. How wonderful was life for a man such as Cioccolata, that his work sated his one true passion in life, the fulfillment of it which granted him true happiness: his driving curiosity. But now, things were just starting to get better and better, at an incredible rate.

"Dannazione!" He repeated gleefully multiple times in his head, before, like second nature, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and speed dialed his partner Secco, who had his own private suite within Cioccolata's mansion. Secco getting over here would be no time, but the Mold Man himself felt that he had no time at all to track his humanoid mutt—this was the best and commonly used alternative for distances between them over 10 yards. They used these handheld phones like they were going out of style, until the battery had to be charged.

The ringing ceased, and Secco picked up with an autistic sounding groan. Cioccolata wasted no time in the call. "Secco, bring your ass over here. Bring the camera, bring your Oasis. We have more work to do. Not from the Boss this time though."

Secco made such an audible groan that Cioccolata winced, loosened the phone away from his ear, which in his excitement, he had plastered against it. Now there was a look of disgust on his aquiline features and Roman complexion. After the ear throbbing groan, Secco continued, "Ciocolataaa, I d-don't feel like d-doing anything e-else. I'm h-hungry. I just wanna lay down now. We worked enough… My arm hurts, Cioccolata." He whined.

Cioccolata's mouth frowned deeper. "Don't tell me about your arm hurting. Quit wasting time and get over here!" Wasting time was one of the things Cioccolata hated most. He always felt like he was on a mission.

Another groan came out of the receiver. Cioccolata continued, "Fine, do you need an incentive? Of course you do, don't you." He sweetened his voice and continued, "How about five sweet things if you get over here in five minutes? That's not asking for too much, right? You think you can get over here in five minutes?" He dropped the final question with a note of ambiguity that drove the primal sense in Secco mad. He was already drooling and panting on the other end.

Now Secco piped in loudly "Y-yes! Y-yes! I'll be right over, Cioccolata! Hueeeehhhee!" With that, there was a click.

Cioccolata crossed his legs in the recliner and gathered his thoughts into one place. Oh boy, was he feeling like a king right now. More accurately, he would be living like a king, very, very soon. This money represented the last he needed in making his plan complete. For the past 6 months after joining Passione, he had saved up quite a sum, not only to further renovate his large estate, but to make the proper accommodations to the lower levels of it.

It was not as if he were about to create his fantasy over-night, he managed his money in such a way that he put into this plan upon each check. But the most essential parts of making his fantasy a living, breathing, warm reality were surely, to be possessed over-night. At this point he was cheesing, grinning with large white teeth ear to ear, as he pondered on the details. And with it, he rubbed his large, smooth hands together.

_I deserve this, _he thought in delight. He had only dreamed of _this _for so long. After all that he had been through with work, losing his previous job, and the work he put into now being a member of Passione; nobody could tell him that he _didn't _deserve this. He had every intention in mind, body and spirit, to pursue this dream, this goal of his in the same way he pursued his education and career.

"Bene!" This came out of a great big hum in his ears, and he was almost shaking with excitement. Just as he was about to zone off into another round of thoughts, he snapped out of it by the click on the door behind him and a "Uuuuawaaah."

Cioccolata broke out of his thoughts with a "Eh?" and flung his arm over the recliner and greeted Secco, who slouched into the room eagerly. But before Secco could walk around before Cioccolata, the latter had already flung the sugar cubes behind him into the air. Thanks to coming prepared with Oasis, Secco was incredibly alert, and positioned himself so that all five fell one by one into his mouth, adjusting his position to catch each one in succession.

Cioccolata's deep green eyes lit up as if they had been sparked alive, and he let out a high pitched "OOooooOOOOooohhhhh!"

As if he had just had a rocket shoved up his ass, he had flung his whole body around the recliner and taken Secco into a chokehold, roughly rubbing his head while exclaiming "Bravo-bravo-bravo-bravo-bravo-bravo-bravo!" and proceeding to scratch his back as a bonus reward. His tone and demeaner was calm now in comparison and regaining his composure he complimented Secco by saying "What a good boy you are."

By the end of all this romping, Secco looked extremely well off, a look of stupid contentment on his face. Taking this moment as opportunity, Cioccolata explained what their "work" now entailed. Secco was already informed on Cioccolata's goal to begin with, but he didn't know that the time was now that they would execute the final steps. "Heyyy, Cioccolata, if you only mentioned this on the phone, I-I would have been much more beager to c-come here."

Cioccolata, caught up in his musings again, noticed the insertion of a made-up word in place of one that was obviously too high for Secco's vocabulary.

"Eh? Hey, Secco. You mean eager."

"Oo-ohh." Secco looked at his hands dejectedly. He was used to Cioccolata stepping in as his Italian teacher. But no one else was allowed to do that, understandably.

Barely noticing, Cioccolata was silent again as he fell back in his thoughts speeding at him from all directions. Oh yes. Secco may be excited well enough himself, but not nearly as much as Cioccolata found himself to be. He rubbed his hands together again, and he was tempted to touch himself, as he could feel quite a hard one trying to make its way out of his thongs.

The thoughts were maddening him, and whenever a feeling this strongly encompassed his being, there was nothing but action which would alleviate it. Only the most extreme would do. Nothing in the moderate sense would relieve him. Yes, yes, yes…Now it was only his curiosity which ruled all else. Questions arose in his mind, all needing answers, answers which only could be given after the proper trial, the proper experience, of documentation, of experimenting.

He needed to know how these women will react to their new environment, what will they say, how will they look; what expressions of fear and hopelessness will be written on their faces, how will their tear-filled eyes look up at him, how long would it take to break them completely; mentally, physically, and emotionally?

When will the moment be, that beautiful moment, that one moment that he would trade the universe to see—where all their hope leaves their souls in a poof of smoke—where they know and have accepted that they were either going to have to conform to their captivity, or die?

No matter how many times he has had the opportunity to behold this phenomenon—of death itself—he could never be completely satisfied, for it was a void that could never be filled. It was only a matter of time, before his desire for this resurfaced, and he has thus tried numerous ways and methods with the object of despair in mind. Cioccolata did not need to kill in order to experience this delight, but it was indeed, the gold standard and all other pleasures of his fell within the mold.

Indeed, no matter how much he witnessed it with his own eyes even, he never grew bored of it, he was never desensitized to it. Maybe plenty of "sane" people would see it as wrong, and the act of it screamed that there was no sensitivity in this man. However, the opposite was true. Cioccolata was full to the brim with sensitivity and passion—even if that quality of humanity was geared toward the attraction of people's suffering, and the compulsion to have himself placed in such a position that he can either, physically or metaphorically, be staring down upon one's despair.

This was why he had to produce snuff films, and with the aid of Secco, it was a lot easier to do so, with much better detail, the help that only an extra set of hands can accomplish. Seeing it once wasn't enough, he had to watch it again and again. But even watching it wasn't enough, old experience had to be replaced with new experience, old practice replaced with fresh, the method redefined. Everything had to be polished and done in a methodical way, and this, he was above average. At this point in his thoughts, he was probably cheesing once more, and Secco was probably just watching him, but he was hardly alert. All he could think about was one thing driving him forward: _"I can't wait to see…! I can't wait to see it __**finally**__…my rape dungeon!"_

* * *

.

The bulk of the money went toward medical equipment, the creation of a small room for the purpose of surgery if the need arises in this new project of his. The creation of this room was not strictly done for this project however, it was to aid him for the future. In fact, he would avoid making full use of this room, as the nostalgia of it may just put him in a frenzy, and he might have the urge to scrap the original idea. For a meticulous man such as himself, this would really piss him off. Even still, everyone had their flaws, and although he personally thought he had few to none, this would have been one of them. Sometimes, no matter how much he had planned and committed to an endeavor, his impulses would take over, and for that moment in time, all rational thought vanished. This was always followed with a mix of pleasure and a wanting to kick himself in the ass.

Still, there was no doubt once he stepped foot in there, or once he put his old surgeon coat and scrubs on, he was going to be hit with some major "feels" which would take some great self-discipline to hold down. Volunteering at the elderly home when he was fourteen-years-old was his first great experience, and he had no idea how much better his work would become in the future going off that time alone. But becoming a surgeon was even better naturally, and since being fired from that, he was always looking to recreate a substance of that experience.

It was easily seen as malpractice, despite the reality being far from it. For him, in his heart, it was truly a malpractice, because it was as a result of his mentioned loss of control to impulses. It was regrettable in this aspect indeed but being a gangster had even more tremendous boons. Quite obviously, the freedom to kill without repercussion. It was fortunate that his life had followed this trend: experiences replaced with even greater pleasurable experiences. To him, his life was truly blessed, and he was so, so very grateful.

His expertise in this subject would forever be beneficial to his current work. The saying "everything happens for a reason," really applies for him here. Putting all this aside, another large chunk of the money was put into the renovation of the lower levels into separate rooms. The basement level had large scaled rooms befitting a mansion of the size, but the rooms were too big, and multiple "cells" could be placed within it. And that's exactly what he had made, cells.

The men hired for the job seemed concerned over why they were making small rooms within the cavernous wine cellar, and why some of the carpet was removed to reveal the cold stone floors, but they had pried not one bit into the matter. For two reasons—that is, well, one look at Cioccolata gave them a bad feeling. He definitely looked like a menacing guy, but his appearance also smelled like money. His loafers alone were exactly eight-hundred-thousand lira. He was dressed head to toe in a flashy outfit befitting of a risqué late 90s, early 2000s trend setter. And one look at his entire estate told them all they needed to know; they connected the dots quite quickly.

It was known all too well that anyone in Italy possessing such a luxurious estate had to be involved with the mafia, and the larger it was, the more telling it was of the power status. Besides, these men were being paid well for such a large job, and it was solid work for a month at least. It behooved them to remain quiet.

Meanwhile, Cioccolata used that month in time in order to take the final steps needed in realizing his fantasy. Making good use of the month, he was able to survey women in different areas of the country. He was on the prowl for any in particular that caught his fancy.

This surprisingly proved to be a little bit more problematic than expected, as he had seen quite a few that were nice looking. However, he was looking for more than just looks alone, but a certain look in their eyes that would be extremely satisfying to see in despair. This would require him to be more personal. If he could, it would have been best if he were able to interact with them more, to gauge the "type," the woman could be labeled as. Master manipulator that he was, this was simple. In the end, he managed to abduct two women—one of which he interacted with, another he had stalked.

The only reason he took the one he had stalked, was because he happened to see her cross his path while he was seated across the way at an al fresco diner. That is, this was an initially unplanned abduction, stirred on by the impulse and seizure of the opportunity. He did not interact with this girl, which would be a lot different from the rest of the women he planned to subjugate into his harem.

She was a true blonde, likely of northern Italian descent, with large blue, sad eyes, which also had a type of turquoise hue. Truth be told, the fact that she had blonde hair was the first thing he had seen in his peripherals which triggered him to lift his head up from his plate. He was just finishing eating at the moment when she caught his eye, with such perfect timing, he speculated that it must have been Fate.

The young girl, likely a teenager, was walking along the stone pavement as if she had no sense of purpose; her gait was almost sluggish, and so, he had no qualms at all about catching up to her—he could easily see where she was heading.

As he sipped the last of the green tea from his tea cup, he noticed as she passed along the black horse head hitching posts a dark purple backpack upon her. He smiled smugly realizing that he had to have been right on speculating her age range. What a great first girl to have debut in his dungeon!

Next, he surveyed her attire in total. Her blonde hair was long enough as he preferred, reaching mid back. From what he could see, especially as she passed him more directly, most of the front portion of her hair was pulled behind her head in a half low ponytail by a plaid green and black scrunchie. Only two thin strips of her long bangs, which were equal in length to the rest of her hair, hung down her face. As this was a typical way of styling hair in the mid to late 90s, and even carrying into the early 2000s, it hardly stood out to him.

She wore an appropriately warm jacket to suit the season, albeit a bit stylishly oversized, red and white patches. A gray pleated skirt, likely her uniform, protruded from the ends of the jacket, reaching above her knees. Matching mid-calf sheer socks were on, and she wore black laced up oxford styled shoes. It was definitely a uniform—this was a school girl. What man, let alone the kind of easily detestable one that Cioccolata was—wouldn't want to get between those thighs?

He had left his fingers between the handles of the tea cup as it was placed on the table as he watched, though he was fully done with it. As she turned the corner, he then began digging out his wallet and leaving his tip. The bill was already left with him. He then got up and walked straight around the opposite corner where he had parked. He got back into his car, seated, and then looked up the road where his vision caught the young girl again walking. She continued slowly up the pavement of the boulevard, but he noted that her direction was north bound. There was no houses or complexes of any kind up toward that way, he knew. Only factories, an empty field, and the continuing boulevard which turned further in toward one of the city's major highways. With that being said, there was no sense to be made why she were walking that way.

Upon further reflection on the matter, the only thing up there that's worth seeing is the river wharf where supply ships unloaded materials to the factories. From the few times he had been there, it was not quite a developed spot for people to just visit. It was rather overgrown with shrub and other matted foliage. There wasn't even any type of trail or chase made out of it.

Slowly the implications of it spread upon his black matte lips. He was smiling from ear to ear. I'll take her there, he thought in satisfaction. He couldn't believe how perfect this was unraveling for him. His first abduction! His thoughts continued again, and he zoned out completely repeating himself in his mind with childish zeal, _I can't wait! I can't wait!_

His eyes rolled up, almost into his head, as he inclined back into the driver's seat. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he creeps up behind her and steals her in the shadow of the evening like a spectre. He got so lost in his fantasy of it, and how exactly he'd do it, that he completely forgot about watching her.

He snapped out of it three minutes later, upon his return to earth, he looked back out the window and up the road, but he saw nothing now.

"Oh! Ohhhh! _Oh,_ _Shhittt!" _He dragged the wordout, then continuing to curse himself as he fumbled through his glove compartment like a manic, finally finding his binoculars. Secco was in the back of the vehicle, sleeping until Cioccolata had his outburst.

"Owwaaa?" Secco half sat up startled with a distressed look written in his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," Cioccolata snapped and continued, too preoccupied with what he was doing, continuing, "I don't need your help yet."

Secco laid back down, then Cioccolata reexamined the street. There was still some day light out, but given the season, it would soon be ending. The sun was already setting. He scoured the area ahead, the opening of the wharf, but now all he could see was the foliage. He could kick himself. But he calmed himself down fast. He knew that's where she was going, there wasn't anywhere else, as strange as it may be. She wasn't on the road, she had to be in there now.

He got the engine going, then despite how badly he wanted to speed up the boulevard, he chose to stick to a cool pace. He easily, given how dead this place was, found a spot to park, purposely edging his vehicle at the only entrance and exit. Given the seclusion, it didn't matter. Now all he had to do was take her straight into his car, no witnesses whether he parked it here or not. No one was here. What was this girl thinking coming out here anyway? Don't all high school students want to just go straight home after school? She sure wasn't like him when he was that age!

He looked out his window again, anxious to spot her. Over the bushes, he was able to make out her figure. She was walking along the edge of the stone over the outlying river, which, with lack of wind, looked completely still today. A dark, almost black void, and not even any creatures in sight, despite such a lack of human visitors. There were a couple benches, but not much else for pedestrian relaxation. The young girl however, did not appear to be concerned with them, choosing rather to sit upon the stone which in societal standards, would be a hazard given the lack of fencing between that, the ledge and the river.

The sun set rapidly now, as it always seemed to just as you notice its impending parting, and the moon gave the illusion that it had introduced itself to make up for the lack, hiding the fact that she was always there. The girl's straw-colored strands caught dancing rays at the sun's departure, and they entertained Cioccolata much, who marveled that this girl would be his mark of prosperity and good fortune in his new hobby: he most preferred blue-eyed blondes above all.

Seeing that she was obviously out here to do nothing else than look out upon the view, which was, indeed, a fine one—bridges, lit buildings, mountains and life teeming from the other side of the river—he decided that he too, would enjoy the view. He reclined his seat back a bit and watched the orange sun descend over the water to the sound of Secco's light and rhythmed breathing.

Cioccolata fished out the binoculars again, this time using them to look out over the distance beyond the river, simply letting his curiosity take him. Soon, he found himself pecking his brain on figuring out the order of birds which he discovered. He wondered if one in specific that he saw was a vulture.

During this time, the blonde only once looked over and saw a vehicle parked not far from her own location within the wharf, but she gave it no further concern than just knowing she was not alone here as she had hoped. It's not possible to know whether she even could see Cioccolata in the front seat of his only slightly outdated car. Although, he did have tinted windows. She continued about her business, which was nothing more than staring out over the river with empty, dreamy eyes; and the blue of the irises filling in the lost color of the dark river. A rich, hopeful shade of blue that left the shores of Sardinia envious—to even think that a human eye could possess such a treasure.

It could be thought of, this moment, as an oddly romantic thing. A moment that was shared between both, a master and a soon to be slave; the former aware of the moment shared, the latter completely oblivious to the shared moment as well as her coming subordination. In this case, Cioccolata was not only a coming master to the young girl but a master of the meeting; her poor karma working hand in glove as an auspice which he hadn't taken lightly. In fact, given the omens surrounding it, it could be said that he had been granted permission by Jupiter to apprehend this girl; to do anything other than that would be an insult.

Most people especially would not have thought to make their way here in early fall, but the appeal wasn't lost on him at all. At least this girl had good taste. But he still couldn't help but wonder why she would have been coming here. Maybe he'd ask her eventually, once she got over her initial trauma. He chuckled to himself, but really, he was soon growing impatient. He needed action.

Strangely enough, as he thought this, the girl got up from the stones, and for a moment, she was facing his vehicle in the distance. He admired the momentary sight of her hair blowing out from behind her, casting a seemingly golden halo framed around her oblong features. And contrary to what may be believed about him, he was very perceptive. Looking upon her face, she almost looked like she wore some type of guilt upon her expression, her pretty pink, doll like lips were pursed—compressed as if there were words tightly adjoined from within.

Cioccolata was now staring with his cheek resting on his balled-up fist and he was struck by a thought as she turned toward the river again, now leaning over the ledge, looking in, seemingly just at her own reflection. But he saw it as something else entirely. _Is she going to jump in? Th-that's not good…! _He thought. On one hand, he would have normally been indifferent about this. However, he already claimed this girl in his mind as his slave. He couldn't let her kill herself. She was a fine specimen!

But he was fretting just a bit, growing a little panicked. Should he hop out of his car before _she does?_ But he didn't know for sure that she would…but she might just jump, with how it looked. If he waited, it might be too late. He fumbled with his fingers just watching her, a sweat breaking out on him. As he watched her now a moment longer, he reasoned he could fish her out of the river easily enough with Green Day. _Could he? _

No. He wasn't going to risk it. He was already getting impatient, this was more than an incentive to finish this now; while the moon has finally taken her command of time. The darkness overtook the wharf quickly; it was time to move. As he looked at her again, it became clear to him that if she _were_ planning to jump in, she was quite hesitant. It was ironic to him, really. However bad her life was now that made her want to commit suicide, was about to be made ten times uglier. Perhaps she'd wish to have this old life of hers back which she is now contemplating on ending.

This thought that passed his mind made him even more excited; it was a further justification for him, greater gratification—to inflict greater pain on a clearly depressed girl, heightened despair. Even now, as the night's gloom enveloped the shades of the trees around them, the girl stayed. If she did come here to cut short her own life, then she should be happy to become his slave; her own naivety which brought herself here should accept it as a divine consequence.

"Hey, Secco." He didn't bother looking back at him, he raised his voice enough only for his pet to hear him, with a bit of a sense of urgency.

Secco was startled awake for the second time, looked toward the front seat with wide eyes and a groan of acknowledgement.

Cioccolata continued, "Get up now, I'll be back with her in a couple minutes."

Secco straightened, he understood that his job from today on with any further abductions was to tie the women up.

And Cioccolata was then out of the vehicle. He didn't bother with a jacket, though he had one with him. He knew it would be a quick job to apprehend any woman let alone a petite teenager. As he stepped through the fallen leaves, so common for the season, he knew that it would make some noise, especially when his soles hit the bit of stone path there was. It didn't matter much now however, he already knew he had won this.

Once through the opening, it was only a few several feet ahead to where she stood, her back to him, at the spot where the stone landings adjoined. Once he closed in on her completely, she wouldn't have much room for escape, with the added hazard of having no type of gate or fencing to separate herself from the short drop into the river. One misstep and she was in; really, she had, unbeknownst to her clueless conduct, sealed her own fate.

His steps were partly muffled by the patches of dirt; he didn't count on it, he really didn't care whether he hit the dirt or the stone. However, once his heel clicked randomly on the stone, the girl looked behind herself by instinct. Her eyes didn't even lock onto his face, and the skin of her own face was already marked by a sickly pallor. Once she saw him, he moved in with more urgency, making her eyes dart to his face that much faster.

Taking in not only the odd appearance of the eccentric hair, face paint, and attire, there was a clear expression of inimical intent upon his features. Truly, what she saw coming toward her was the stuff of true horror—his stature and embodiment was so heathenish that he looked to be not even real. He was something that was not of the modern world, but simply dwelled within it; something that should have been excommunicated from society long ago.

Her eyes widened, but by the time they did, and her head darted from left to right, back to the dark water she had spent such concentration on previously, he had already overtaken her by the time she looked back to him.

She stood up abruptly, a futile attempt, and in doing so, played right into his hands; the ease with which he was able to catch her in a choke hold with his combat knife was pathetic. The beginning of a shriek escaped her mouth, but a thick cloth was shoved over her mouth, muffling any further noises; his palm was pressed like solid brick over her jaw, that it was even painful to move it. Time must have slowed down for her in the act, but in reality, it was rather swift and effortless.

Cioccolata dragged her back with him toward his car, while she at first tried to catch her footing, but it was an impossible endeavor given that she was being lugged along from behind. His arm was wrapped entirely around her torso, her head was pressed hard against his rib cage, his thumb extended along into her jaw; gripping the length of her face was evidently easy.

She was further entangled like this, under both arms, dragged away with haste, but still, on account of the will to survive, she clawed the sleeves which bound her. As she couldn't see where she was headed, the only thing she heard next was, as she stared petrified at the green eyes of her perpetrator, was the opening of the car door. It must have seemed to open magically for her, as Cioccolata did not move any arm which held her captive to him; for it was Secco who extended the curtesy.

Her eyes widened in terror anew to see Secco, from behind and above her, as she was slammed down into the back seat. Her backpack was swiftly ripped away, and her arms were taken and stretched above her head by what was to her, a half-naked young man, while Cioccolata was already subduing her legs by her ankles. He caught a glimpse of red and black panties during the struggle, but he remained focused on the task at hand. After knotting her ankles with the rope, he wrapped the clothe around her face, effectively gagging her given how well he tied it.

After the men had successfully tied her up, Cioccolata sighed in contentment, then looked down upon what he done, as he always did with his victims, in the utmost joy. Looking down upon her, he saw everything that he had wanted to see and more: Simple, terror-stricken eyes, not the eyes of a girl anymore, but more like an animal, or even an insect; something that had been dehumanized already before his "training" for her even began.

It was a bit of a strange thing that Cioccolata did not even taunt his victim, he loved using not only actions but words to wear them down, but with this blonde girl however, this absolute trophy slave, he was simply speechless.

He looked over her sweet, delicate body with pride, wishing that he could take her on the spot with Secco watching, simply commanding her to get the camera rolling. As tempted as he was, he decided in favor of delayed gratification. But it didn't stop him from making his perverted intent known to her, his lids dropping over his green irises as they trailed over her bare thighs from her skirt. When his eyes met hers now, full on for the longest time yet, the full weight of her presence hit him.

_So perfect, so beautiful… _he thought, and his brows almost furrowed in delight, his lips almost puckered in anticipation. As he then erupted in demonic laughter which only grew progressively, he felt, for now the third time in his life—blessed. With that, a clothe was now being forced over her eyes by Secco, but they remained opened until the end, not knowing if her terror simply imagined a vague fringe of sickly green hue forming a crown upon his head.

* * *

.

The next unfortunate woman was a southern Italian he had seen speed walking. She had looked as though she was out for a jog, and he caught her while it appeared she was still warming up. He spotted this woman while sitting parked in his white luxury vehicle. Secco was in the backseat of the car, as he was for when Cioccolata returned with the other girl four days earlier. This woman however, Secco was seemingly ravenous over. Cioccolata was in the middle of speaking to Secco about new potential rearview mirror décor.

"I've considered embalming eyeballs and using them _instead! _You've got to admit, it's a great idea. And it would be effortless to tie and hang there. It's almost as if the anatomy of the eyes were made to be used as decoration. Imagine all the other spots you can hang them! _Hahahah!" _Cioccolata spoke on in a fast, articulate, and of course, an animated manner that was typical of him with his pet.

Secco, as usual, was simply dick-eating on every word Cioccolata said; nodding his head ravenously in agreement and cheering the sadist on. This usually always resulted in Cioccolata rambling even more either about some gruesomely sick details, or some elaborate philosophies, intellectualism, spirituality—or a combination of all these things. All of which, besides the gruesome details, went well beyond Secco's head, so he simply marveled at Cioccolata's intelligence. Even now, Cioccolata was just getting warmed up in conversation.

"I'd love to do it, really. Honestly it serves a visual appeal more than a functional one… Well, the eyes are quite symbolic. Heehee! Imagine that—when the perp breaks in my car, he'll no doubt spot them, and by the time he tries to haul ass out of my car I'll sneak up behind him and take his head!" Cioccolata chuckled again childishly, then continued, "I might be able to be make it more functional if I wrap the optic nerve cords around some type of fixture, where I have already inscribed _runes._" His green eyes lit up then as he established the premise of his master plan on, for him, an arts and crafts project.

Cioccolata stared now at the outdated charms he currently kept as his rearview mirror décor with a full wide smile, but the charm wasn't really smiling back, that is, maybe half smiling. It was a previous victim's entire mandible, the molars, canines, premolars, incisors, and even wisdom teeth _mostly_ intact. That was the problem with them, which brought up this discussion. As of late, a couple of the teeth had fallen off, and now Cioccolata couldn't find where they disappeared to. You would think that the most likely spot would be the floor or in the storage crevice directly below, but it was as if the teeth suddenly evoked the spirit of their long dead master; growing legs and marching away to liberation. Either that or the tooth fairy got them overnight.

He supposed that this must have happened in the first place from them getting banged around too much driving. He did think that the mandible looked charming enough with a couple missing teeth, but the fact of the matter was that he purposely kept the teeth attached to the mandible when he initially removed it from the man's cranium; therefore, he wanted it to remain. And he looked at this as a fault of the man's dental health rather than his own carelessness. Needless to say here, it was really unfortunate.

Cioccolata heard no appraisal or acknowledgements from Secco this entire time now, and he would have originally commented on this fact, but now, something new had caught his attention. His eyes quickly darted from the mandible to a thick, round ass in gray yoga pants. Her back seemed so arched to exaggeration that he couldn't help but put the doctor's coat back on metaphorically. _What bad posture… She's out here jogging, but she had better fix that lumbar curve. Does she think that's attractive? She's just asking to get fucked…_

"Uhhh..Uh! Uh! Ouuuuwwwaaa…" Secco moaned longingly after the woman with the hourglass shape. An erection grew through his gimp suit, and with the tight fabric, was quite discomforting.

Cioccolata was too busy to notice Secco moaning as he was fixated on her rounded ass switching in her gray yoga pants. He had his hand still rested on the steering wheel and his lips were slightly parted, revealing his two front teeth. He was getting a little bit hard himself, despite his critique on the woman's posture. But suddenly, his heart leapt in his chest to the sound of a loud thud. He turned around, and it was Secco smashing his face against the window with his mouth agape, and the moaning continued with a higher pitched frenzy.

"Hey, hey, hey, Secco! Calm down." Cioccolata reprimanded him, and continued, "What are you getting a boner over there over her yoga pants?"

Secco removed his face from against the window and cried "Cioccolaaataaaaa! Please! Let's take this woman, please! T-this… this is important."

"Pfft. She's got a really nice ass, that's for sure. But I haven't gotten a look at her face yet. You know you can't just go off the body, Secco. Trust me."

Secco piped up five notes higher and began pleading with Cioccolata in a way that would garner pity from anyone. "T-t-talk to her, Cioccolata! We can still g-get her! Drive up to her and talk to her!"

Cioccolata looked down and caught a glimpse of Secco's erection, and with that he started laughing. "Alright, Secco. You've been being a good boy lately, so consider it a reward. Anyway, I'm hoping with the way her body looks, she'll have a good face as well. I'll make it work."

With that, he drove slowly up to her figure, which had made it quite up the block, her body serving as a lantern upon the rows of endless trees to the other side of her. It was a quickly darkening day, and the sun was now looking upon the river in the short distance. It seemed more likely that this woman was perhaps finishing up her jog, and winding down, rather than warming up. As Cioccolata pulled up to her side, he lowered his window and politely caught her attention, bringing her pace to a halt.

Secco had already hidden down on the floor of the backseat vehicle. When her eyes met his, he saw that she had to have been a good amount older than the previous girl he had abducted, who, he was wondering may have been a minor. This woman may have been in her mid-twenties, and her hazelnut eyes shined with sophistication. She was beautiful, but there was something about her face and expression that made him want to rock the whites of his knuckles into her jaw. He masked his disgust however with his usual charm and wide smile.

"Scusami. I didn't mean to interrupt your work out, but to be frank, I don't know which way I should go to reach the nearest highway. I'm not from around here, you see." The last part wasn't a lie.

The woman looked off-put by his appearance, and anyone would. The green face paint seemed out of place to her, but after judging his spotless luxury vehicle, she assumed he couldn't be a hoodlum, and figured, along with what he had just exchanged, that he may have come to the area to attend some type of party. "Oh, um, yes. You just keep up this long road, make the right, and you should see the highway there. You can't miss it."

Meanwhile Secco was peeking ever so slightly out of the window again. Cioccolata glanced at him, and Secco returned his gaze with two thumbs up. Somewhat reluctantly, Cioccolata unlocked the doors. The object of seeing her face done, and Secco confirming his interest, he allowed him to do the honors in apprehending the woman. With the speed of Oasis, combined with his lust, Secco was wrapped around her in barely two seconds. By the time she noticed the back door open, she had already a hand pressed tightly over her mouth.

Still, she made too much noise and gave much pointless rebellion to the capture, that Cioccolata hopped out of the vehicle, came up from her behind, and hit a pressure point in the back of her neck, knocking her out. Secco handled her body gleefully, wrapping her up with rope and taping over her mouth.

Cioccolata spoke, "You can keep her in the backseat with you. Remember, it's a reward. Honestly I felt like putting the petal to the medal once I saw her face." He said this, but he felt that the reactionary disgust for the woman may prove to be exquisite in what he'd do to her. Secco was more than happy, he could hardly put a proper word to describe his pet's excitement. The dog surely had gotten a bone.

.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Let him soothe your soul, just take his hand (Dr. Feelgood)  
Some people call him an evil man (Dr. Feelgood)  
Let him introduce himself real good (Dr. Feelgood)  
He's the only one they call feelgood! (Dr. Feelgood)" ~ , Mötley Crüe_

* * *

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_**Capitolo II:**_

_-Formazione schiava: prima fase-_

_25, October 1999_

The renovations were done in about a month's time since he hired them. The men who did the job quickly left with hardly a word to Cioccolata when it was finished besides the customary remarks. Cioccolata housed the two women, until that time was over, in specific rooms in his mansion. The rooms were located on the second floor, within the same corridor as his bedroom. Their doors were kept locked, and he had entrusted Secco with the keys. Secco understood, as he normally did as Cioccolata's one and only assistant, that he was to become something like a butler to his slaves whenever the master was away.

There was no need for the women to leave their rooms anyway. Something like a hotel or bed-and-breakfast room, they had their own small bathroom attached. The dungeon's necessities were set in a similar fashion, but without the luxury and niceties; the cells of the dungeons were deliberately medieval. Cioccolata did have a methodical system in place for his project. The dungeons would mark a first phase for his incoming slaves; discipline. The slave training would begin here. Each woman would spend one month here, in order to be groomed into becoming the perfect pets. Why one month? Because it was all that he needed. What woman couldn't be tamed and domesticated after spending an entire month—no exceptions—in a dim, dreary, morgue styled dungeon nightmare?

After those two weeks, he would remove them from the dungeon, and allow them to roam around the estate. Cioccolata was a control freak, obviously, so naturally there would be some rooms off limits. His study and bedroom to name a few. The only reason they could enter is if he allowed it. However, this period of when he would first bring the slave up from the lower levels, you could say, would be a trial period. That is, for another two weeks they would be under his strict surveillance—he decided that he would refer to them as being "in the robe." This would reference their dungeon attire still being kept on: hospital gowns.

During the two weeks that they will be in the robe, they will be put through several fitness and health tests that for most part, will take place in his personal gym. He would become somewhat of a strict personal trainer for them, recording their progress as well as their body measurements, even seemingly worthless details. It should go without saying, Cioccolata would also incorporate strange and exploitive tests and measures in his pet grading system. All these details and more will be documented within the respective slave's file.

After the general inspections of the first two weeks, if the slave did not meet his "standards," they would be sent back to the dungeon for further refinement.

Really, he could hardly believe how well his fantasy played into reality; his estate had a separate wing, which, before the realization of his dream, he had no idea what to use for. But now…he knew.

He had decided that the wing adjacent to his own living quarters would become the slave's quarters. He would make better use of this area once he had at least three slaves in total. He was hoping to kidnap at least one more very soon, so she could be done her training in the dungeon not long after the other two finished. The slave quarters were almost a mirror image to his own living area, with differences in paneling, wallpaper, and design.

The parlor there would be the slave's day room, and on the second floor was a series of tidy bedrooms. The staircase and corridor were the most significantly contrasting to his. It wound itself around the wall, the first top set of stairs holding a small, tidy end table as well a tall, cottage styled windowpane. The view was quite nice, showcasing the trees and moor making up his outer estate, as well as Secco's private suite. His "doghouse." Until now, he used this area as a guest suite, indeed, only making a handful of uses out of it… It shouldn't come as a surprise that Cioccolata did not entertain many visitors; and whoever they were probably didn't last long.

Back to the case of the two housed women. As it stood, they were both in a state of confusion; the auburn-haired woman much, much more in despair already. For Cioccolata, it was quite comical. The couple of weeks they had to enjoy their lavish living and good eating should have been taken as a blessing. It very much was, since after the renovations were complete, no other women he would take would ever again experience his estate at entry for such an extended period. All would move, at least to his planning, straight into the dungeon. They had no idea that things were to become much worse.

At the finish of the renovations, Cioccolata had most preparations complete, and his method was well revised. Secco was also in on how everything was going to go down. He, as usual, was going to be the camera man and make sure to make quality films Cioccolata could enjoy at a later date. Secco was desensitized to his master's morbid tastes, quite used to Cioccolata's persistence upon him capturing every sick detail. Secco by now, was an expert at his trade in being Cioccolata's assistant, he knew exactly what he liked to be zoomed in on or emphasized in the tapes; he executed perfectly.

In the next series of tapes they would make in the dungeon, Secco was already briefed on how his master wanted the recording style to be. Unless given his master's permission, he was not allowed to get in on the action. They did however have an agreement that he would allow Secco to fuck around with the auburn-haired woman. And the excitement in both men was mutual; in this, Cioccolata had no objection to be the observer. He'd hold the camera once again for that one, like times of old.

Medical equipment was complete, and his stock of BDSM toys, selected specifically for this moment, was already set aside. He had also made sure to take painstaking observation of the women before he took them down to the lower levels. He tried to gather as much information about them as he could, including their age and blood types. As suspected, the blonde was just barely legal; a couple of years past the age of consent, which made his dick harder than a rock. Because of this alone, he was fonder of this girl than when he had "met" her. But there was another interesting observation. The girl seemed almost completely as saddened and hopeless as when he first saw her, before her abduction. This drove his curiosity maddingly, as he wondered how much it would take for him to break her.

He already knew what type the other woman would be. She'd do anything to keep her life, and it won't take long to see a pure look of desperation in eyes as he fucks her brains out mercilessly. With the more underdeveloped physique of the young blonde girl however, she should have had a lot more to fear in how much she could handle. She looked, naturally, more anxious, more hopeless than when he first saw her, but it was hardly fitting to the situation. He speculated she was tapping into a sort of mental strength. But in his experience, that type of fortitude was easy to pick apart once you establish its root.

And so Cioccolata formed a bit of a hypothesis before going into his fantasy, his predictions and expectations of the women laid out neatly. In the future, he thought it would be a good idea to abduct many more women in this way, but as this was a newly formed project, he needed to simply test the waters. Like all beginning projects, there were sure to be errors. But everything was a learning experience. Whatever errors he makes in the beginning can surely be avoided when the time comes again. While he wasn't expecting to make any mistakes, he was content if he did, for this reason. Besides, even if he got bored with his idea or made too many errors, he could just scrap them by unleashing Green Day. Doing so wouldn't make him lose any sleep at all; it would still be worth the watch!

With all ready and in place, and the women now having spent two days in his wonderful Rape Dungeon, he figured there was no more time to waste, and he wouldn't leave them in suspension much longer. Forty-eight hours of nothing at all besides one small meal was enough to place a great amount of apprehension in anyone.

With this, Cioccolata was pleased to don his old surgical uniform and make his way down to his prized Rape Dungeon. As he descended the stairs, he felt a great surge of pride in the realization of his fantasy. How many men can say that they are able to bring to complete fruition the full extent of their sexual reveries? Especially when the details of these things are more extreme. Most men had soft rape fantasies, and they practiced this urge with safety. Cioccolata looked down upon that. To him, rape was the right and biological urge of any man, and it deserved to be practiced.

Domination always was, and still is, a clear fact of life. Without it, human beings wouldn't have been able to evolve to what they are now. And no matter where you looked in history, the strongest civilizations always ruled over the weak. Dominion was Cioccolata's philosophy and way of living. A maniacal grin was already plastered on his face by the time he had reached the bottom, and he couldn't help but think to himself what a glorious couple of weeks it'll be for him.

The cells in which both women were placed in were directly adjacent to each other, and this placement was exactly what he wanted. At this angle, each could see each other. Walking between both, it was all by chance that he would be facing the one with the auburn-haired woman. Cioccolata was pleased to see that Secco had already removed her clothes, and he assumed to the other one as well. He looked behind himself and saw that this was true. For both, what he saw was more than pleasing to the eye.

Both women were, for most of their limbs, free, however, both were bound at the wrists by a rope. Each woman was restrained in a different way, and Cioccolata assumed Secco took the liberty in doing this; but this too pleased him. While the 'auburn' was bound with her wrists tightly folded behind her back, the blonde had her wrists bound in front of her. Just when he was about to open the cell of the blonde's, he spotted Secco sitting patiently on the ground with the camera.

"Good job on the preparations, Secco. You've got enough battery, right?"

Secco nodded his head, "Uh-huh, uh-huh." He was once again overly excited for obvious reasons.

There was a definite brisk in the air of the lower levels, and the effect of this had both women, or rather, his slaves, cool to the touch. Once Cioccolata entered the blonde's cell, the first thing he noticed was her erect nipples, and the further hopeless look in her large blue eyes. Like the other woman, she also had a tight gag wrapped around her mouth. This was especially pleasing for him; nothing made his dick harder than when they couldn't speak, and the only thing they could utter was a muffled cry.

He instantly got a hard on just looking at this girl sitting on the cold, dry ground below him. Her frame and the curve of her hips were slight, her breast was small, but the most defining aspect of hers was her long, thin legs. Her blonde hair, now fully naturally without her scrunchie, ran down to her mid back, and her eyes stared back up at her master with a seeming knowledge of what was to come.

Her full pink lips wrapped around her gag so delightfully, and it took everything to keep Cioccolata from going cowabunga and shoving his dick in her mouth, but he planned on examining these women first. Telling Secco to bring over the gurney, he told the girl to get up, which she did, but not without hesitation. Upon standing, there was an undeniable shame in her eyes and her white features, lacking much of its natural color over the ordeal as it was, and her cheeks shone crimson.

As he took a couple steps closer to her, she hid her gaze to her feet, and in a moment he had overtaken her. He took her angular chin between his thumb and index finger and whispered in her ear, "Good girl." He felt a shudder from her upon his touch, witnessed a wince in her eyes, and a shaky hum from her throat. And after this, quite effortlessly with her weight and frame, he loaded her onto the gurney.

* * *

.

Cioccolata had waited awhile until the anesthesia kicked in for at least one of the females. The time he took with one was sufficient to when he switched to the other. He wanted to do a general exam on both women before he went into the second act of his project, and he made interesting discoveries which he made sure to take note of promptly after the procedures. Secco was much too excited for the other women's procedure, so he allowed him to touch her body.

Both females were in perfect health. There was a difference in organ size, particularly the heart between the blonde and the auburn. The blonde, not betraying her petite constitution, possessed some slightly smaller upper abdominal organs, at least what could be observed of them directly. In addition, both women possessed beautifully colored livers which suggested they were not heavy drinkers. He wanted to ascertain along with this, that the women were not smokers either. Unfortunately for his curiosity, this could not be done since his objective wasn't to kill these women. Cioccolata had quite a fixation with examining fresh organs obviously, but in most of his experience, doing so was a huge risk.

Among these normal observations, he made a discovery on the auburn, a fact in which she omitted herself, ultimately to her regret. This, in itself, brought him great pleasure, although it also brought upon him significant distaste—not helping the auburn in her base lack of favor from him.

It began with the auburn woke up to the shooting, stabbing pain in her abdomen. Her hazelnut eyes strained to see in the otherwise dark room, except for the red light. She could see a bright light somewhere off, toward her lower half, but not directly shining on her. She recognized it as a type of extendable surgical light head. Her sudden wakefulness led to a disorientation in her mind; how could she be in a hospital?

The placement was incredibly unexpected; to go from a well-kept, small bedroom and suddenly wake up in what seemed like a room where they performed surgery. It was completely unimaginable. So much so, that she would have imagined it was all a night terror, or sleep paralysis. Her heart sped rapidly, seeming to bounce off her ribs like a bird suddenly snared in a cage.

But she couldn't move. How could it be—how was it possible that she could see perfectly, move her eyes, her mouth, speak even, but not move her body? Evidently, Cioccolata was not only a skilled surgeon, but a superb anesthesiologist.

She tried lifting her upper appendages, but hardly anything could be done by the lift of a single pointer. Was it really a night terror then? Could it only be just a dream..? But the pain felt too real. Indeed, too horrible. And as she came into consciousness increasingly, the pain finally registered through a cry spat between her lips in a grotesque outburst.

Cioccolata looked up in zeal from his live examination of her liver to see his slave awake and fully suffering. With intension, he pressed the surgical probe into her organ, hoping to pry another delightful noise out of her. There was simply no sense in dissecting the dead, but there was something wonderous in doing so to a live specimen; feeling their warmth, seeing slightly moving organs to each breath. To know that everything was alive, but so easily could be squashed. This was wonderful.

The women shrieked, and if she could have clung to the gurney, to the medical restraints over her, gripped the cushion beneath her, she would have. That is, if only she could move. What worse despair in the world could there be; when your nerves are doing their best to alert you, to get you to fight back or flee from the intrusion upon your own body, but unable to obey and heed its calls.

It was a blood curdling howl, and when she looked down her body, saw the mock surgeon poised over here, with only a scalpel in his left hand and a surgical probe in his right hovering over a bright crimson mass, her shrieks only increased in volume. Just when it didn't seem it could be any worse, as she howled, her features resembling "The Scream," she saw a slender man's body creep from behind her. His body was darkened, but he looked to be half naked. Her recollection sped up and she realized it was the man who had captured her, the man who she had only seen for what seemed like a split second before her freedom was crimped. His arm was held anterior to his chest, a red light beaming from the darkness. It was a camera…a camcorder.

Being dug into, having your organs pressed on, tortured, for no reason at all, it was bad enough. But to have your humiliation, disgrace and depravity marked forever in time by recording it…it was so horrible. It was a true violation of a human right. The auburn was having only a glimpse of the experiences his other victims endured—whose lives came to an end at the hands of this mad doctor. Everyone knew that hospitals were a world of death, but not in the sadistic fashion; no one imagined that it were a place where demons roamed.

"Very good. Wonderful expressions."

His voice almost hummed in the eerie operating room, no longer a place where a patient could feel they were in the best hands. That is, this illusion of a hospital room, this is exactly what those patients must have thought. But the auburn had no way of knowing this. She had no hint of the man's history; all she knew was that he was a monster.

Cioccolata thought, with how deliciously she cried, and the expression on her face, how her neatly done eyebrows pulled back her forehead into charming lines, that he just may grow fond of her after all, at least, simply on account of those expressions. Why, she was so much prettier now that she was in despair.

He bit his lip as he looked back down on his senseless dissection of the woman. What else could he do to produce much more wonderful expressions? It was endless. He then broke his thought on this to speaking aloud.

"How else can my slave please me, hm? I'm sure if I removed your gallbladder right now, or your pancreas, it would be enough to satisfy my lust for a week. Or what if I just played around with your spleen…"

"_Oh_ god, no! no! no! no! _no!" _She whined in horror.

He looked straight at her again, grinning with sincerely maniacal teeth, "Nah! I'm only staying in the right upper quadrant, _dearest_." The term of endearment was obviously made in deliberate sarcasm. He continued, "I can't decrease the quality of life of my slaves now can I? Not even _you_…" he remarked sweetly, as if this were a compliment.

And really, shockingly, he didn't have much further of an objective than to frighten the woman shitless. He already satisfied himself with as much as he wanted to, debatably. He decided on teasing her more, though the tease to him, was torment to her. She was already whimpering, her full and drained lips quivering in distress.

"_Hmmm? _ You had better speak up now, before I make the final decision." His sweet tone was gone, now he only spoke in a reprimand. It was back and forth with him like this typically.

She could hardly see the man, she was blinded by the surgical light; and with its placement, the only thing that she could clearly see on the wall was his large, looming shadow. Not being able to gauge the man, it was a blessing and a curse. But his change in tone, the impending doom of not speaking up, to let him make the "final decision," this was maddening.

"_Dio mio…Oh, oh, Dio aiutami per favore…!" _Her eyes scanned the shadows, and feeling her hope fading, she threw out her only bullet, the only thing that she felt could possibly save her; where all hope felt lost, but for one thing. "_Please_, I'm pregnant. I…I only found out last month…I-I'm only seven weeks in.." But the pain was too much, immediately after speaking, she inhaled deeply through her teeth, snarled with fright.

There was silence in the mock hospital room, but the shadow did move. It was Cioccolata of course, and he wasn't altogether pleased. He looked over at Secco, then back again.

"How… _disappointing." _He sighed.

This slave was making more work for him than she was worth. Never mind that he already made more work for himself by cutting her open. Don't they say that it's helpful to look at things in a positive light? Well then! Couldn't this pregnancy be looked at in a positive as well? Why, of course it could. He smiled now. But it wasn't like she could see it.

He took a seat now at the swivel stool, pulled the service tray closer to him. He abandoned his previous tools with a slap on the aluminum along with fresh blood. He went to the prepared tools now; a few different forceps, tweezers, scissors, packets of suture. It was obvious now what was coming, but he wasn't planning on relying on Green Day for this one. Cioccolata was now especially looking forward to making the auburn suffer.

With that, he poked the needle through the edges of her incision and got to work promptly closing her abdominal wound. But no sooner he put it in, the bitch was whining.

"W-what are you doing!?" she cried.

"What does it feel like I'm doing?" he cracked. "Assuming you want your wound closed and dressed? Can you make up your mind?"

"_But it hurts!" _tears were spilling from her eyes now, and she only bared and grinded now her teeth harder as he quickly poked into her, tying up an awfully deep wound. He wasn't halting despite the conversation.

"My _God! _"she sobbed now.

"You had better build your pain tolerance. Now I'm giving you a chance to work on that." He said this now rather blankly, he was intent upon what he was doing, looking quite at peace really.

It was therapeutic, as if doing this for him was like crocheting. Supinating his wrist and without placing too much weight on her body, he continued along in a horizontal stitch.

The auburn didn't intend to, but now she could see his face better. It only served to make her distress worse. The face paint, lipstick and earrings weren't soothing adornments, rather it seemed now they were chosen to be humiliating, threatening. She wanted to scream again, but instead she cried her eyes out, the only consolation being that the focus on her tears, on crying harder and harder, served as a distraction from this nightmare. This _had _to be hell.

"_Aw. _Are we crying _already? _Tsk, tsk, tsk. Looks like I'll have myself a mopey slave. It's okay. You're evolving." He smiled genuinely as he spoke, but it was a sick smile, and she saw it.

At this point, Cioccolata slowed his roll. He began hooking the needle through her skin slowly, but precisely—placing emphasis on the dermis directly at the incision. It wasn't that he was trying to be more careful nor precise, his meaning was obvious. He deliberately slowed the pace, and stole glances at his slave's face, savoring the expressions all the better.

Her auburn hair matted and clumped to her skin already broken out in mild perspiration. Her eyes shot between being nailed shut in a tight grimace, to opening again. He loved catching her gaze in these sudden moments, relishing in her shock to see him staring at her so intently. Her jaw shook, lips trembled, and face quivered now involuntarily. There was further humiliation in her eyes, not even having control of herself, no way to alleviate it.

Once he drank it all up, he resumed on his pacing, then remarking, "You'll have to excuse my prolonging the moment. But I'm wondering if you'll remember everything later, or perhaps only bits and pieces."

The auburn hardly looked like she was listening, there was too much to focus on. However, it can be assumed her ears worked just as they always have.

"That just _won't_ do. I really want you to remember…" he continued.

He thought for a moment then, and suddenly he began whistling. It wasn't clear at first that it was a tune, because the whistles came out in quick, purposeful notes. Each paced in the same way one after the other, each second, eight times.

"_Sen~ding you forget-me-nots, to help me to remem~ber. Baby please, forget me not. I want you to remem~ber."_

Cioccolata sounded lovely singing this, but it was highly inappropriate. Secco was giggling now, and this prompted him to try to get in on the fun. The auburn's eyes flashed with sick recognition. Coincidentally, she did just happen to stop sobbing around this time, whilst silent tears still streamed past her cheeks.

Secco was excited, he began singing next. "_D-did we give up toooo soon…? M-maybe we—" _

"Quit it, Secco. You need to focus on keeping the camera steady. Not only that, but you skipped the whole first verse."

"Ooohh…" Secco heaved in exasperation, but then mumbled to himself, "Come on…" It seemed like he was more so agitated of the fact that he skipped a verse than being made to discontinue.

Cioccolata heard him but said nothing. He addressed the auburn instead.

"Excuse him. That is my pet, Secco. You weren't supposed to hear him, but he's got a habit of barking when he gets a little too excited."

Cioccolata continued working for the next several minutes, Secco kept the camera rolling and the auburn kept her tears rolling in addition to wonderful VHS material.

Finishing was another matter. This wasn't the end of the torment, though Cioccolata played upon the hope he knew would be in the female slave.

"Ah, I'm finished. _Delightful._" He patted along the line of intricately sewn surgical thread, seemingly basking in the beauty. His eyes glittered, but in the lighting, the phenomena were visible to none, like a stray meteor shower in an urban sky.

He took off his gloves, really appearing as if it would all be over. He even pushed the service tray away. He stood up now and looked down at the creature of a woman he had made on the gurney. Goodness, what he wouldn't do to bring that pretty face back into despair. Her skin looked so delightful, covered in perspiration, her hazelnut eyes a shade brighter. Being in so much pain only worked to make her look more alive. How wonderous that was indeed. Even her lips seemed to increase blood flow.

Her eyes pleaded now, as they stared above herself, looking to what could only be her God now. But despite this, he wouldn't fall into any other temptation other than to strip away that hope he could see clearly and watch her crumble and fall back into the despair she had previously fought. But… knowing that she was pregnant still did not please him. It was ultimately a disgust for him. It was clear proof that she had had another man inside of her. She was _his _slave now. He would make her pay for it, as if she had filed the transgression while _being _his slave.

Her eyes darted at him, at Secco, and around the room. Secco looked like he was highly confused and concerned. He clearly wasn't too much in the loop on this one. And this was understandable, after all, the auburn's revelation was news to them both. Just then, Cioccolata moved toward Secco like he meant business. When he was less than a foot by him, hovering over him, he spoke.

"The pet is learning a lesson tonight." He was referring to Secco in this, continuing, "You were just too eager to bring home a slave, a little plaything. You didn't think about the responsibility involved."

Secco pouted. He understood it was the case. But in all honesty, he hardly cared one way or the other. He was still wondering when Cioccolata would allow him to fuck her.

"Keep the camera on her, don't focus on what I'm doing now." he commanded.

Secco of course obeyed. The auburn didn't hear any of this, for Cioccolata spoke too low, practically having mumbled it to Secco. He was now seen rummaging through one of cabinets, taking out a medium sized instrument within packaging. He went on to remove the packaging and then promptly putting some of the pieces together. She had never seen such a thing, had no idea what it could be, but because of the way he held it upon its unwrapping, and smiled upon it, made her tremble all over again. Maddeningly, she couldn't make out just what it was, just how he was putting it together. Clearly, he was purposely doing so from a distance.

What she could make out however, sent chills through her, and her stomach churned unforgivingly. She saw what looked like a type of cannula, and he looked to be assembling that to the other medium sized device. Her eyes strained harder on the tall dark figure, of what appeared to be a doctor given the garb, but the dimness played tricks on her vision. Why was it so dark…?

Just when she was summoning the courage to address him again, he spoke up instead.

"I didn't imagine I would ever have the opportunity to use this. You're a _very_ fortunate slave, in a way. I would have had to execute this procedure the old-fashioned way." He cracked a wider smile when he said this, "Victorian style."

The most wicked nausea hit her just then. She saw him then take out more tools, seemingly forceps again, along with a few others; long stainless-steel tools with blunted edges that glistened in what light could reflect on it. How could she feel this sick now, this alert, and still not move?

As she yelped again in denial, questioning him on his meanings and intensions, he was over with her again promptly.

"Now, now! Don't worry about what I'm doing. You'll know once I'm done anyway." He stated this quite mockingly. His green eyes narrowed at her medium browns, specs of light between the irises. There was some blood around the midsection of his scrubs, and if she could move, her knees would have buckled at the sight of it, to know that it was _her _blood.

"I can see clearly that you're afraid." He spoke, whilst checking on Secco to make sure he was coming around, getting an angle he most desired. He was satisfied in this, as Secco was now circling, coming in closer between them. He was heard panting in anticipation, he had no idea what Cioccolata was going to do now.

He continued now, "But don't worry, I have a steady hand. And, although I haven't performed this type of procedure before, I am expecting to only take about ten minutes. Give or take."

To hear the word "procedure" sent the sockets of her eyes into her skull, barely visible but the whites. Her breathing pitched in a frenzy. When she looked at the contraption again that he now placed on the service tray, alongside the other instruments, the instrument he was assembling earlier, a type of syringe—she went wild again.

It hit her what had to be going on, given the nature of the shape the instrument possessed. The auburn then howled another blood curdling scream that broke into unrelentless sobs. Her facial expressions were shameless, she looked like a baby pulled from the womb…but that analogy…for it to be used now…it was disturbing.

"So noisy…why don't you wait to scream like that once you're down in the dungeon where it's not so enclosed and I can hear a nice echo?" he teased now, as he put on some fresh latex gloves. "Now open those legs." He adjusted the stirrups at that point.

The auburn was staring at him making nonsensical weeping and moans. "I can't! I can't! I can't move!" she cried, throwing her face from side to side.

"Ahh, I was just kidding. I know _that._" He chuckled now, then he took the liberty of taking her ankles and raising them into the stirrups. He adjusted the strap around them, keeping them in place, especially since she herself had no voluntary control.

He first seemed to pat her down with what felt like an alcohol pad, then applied a lubrication on her vagina, and her skin crawled at the sensation of his gloved hand seeping into her opening. He pressed all around her vaginal floor like he was her gynecologist. The good thing was, there was no way she could be tensed, having no control over her muscles. It would make things much easier for him.

When he was done violating her, he spoke again.

"Well! Well, well, well. Unfortunate for you but, you're going to feel everything. You'll feel some _discomfort _but…you'll have to just take it like a big girl." He was taking one of the stainless-steel tools in hand now as he continued on, "After all, you were certainly being a big girl when you decided you wanted another man in you."

His degradation of her made her internally blanch, along with the feel of his latex fingers sliding the lubrication inside her vaginal canal further.

"Even I have to reap the consequences of my own actions and handle my responsibilities. _Right now_…we're both taking the actions necessary to rectify those consequences."

She couldn't take it anymore, hearing him say this now, and seeing him opening her vagina with the forceps. It was clear that she was going to be put through an uncanny abortion, all without her consent. Tears were forming anew, and she began pleading with him again.

"I _was _handling my res-responsibilities..! This wasn't an accident, _I was_—" she cried in a hopeless plea.

"I'm not interested in your personal life before your enslavement. Not a thing about you personally piques my curiosity. Do you understand me? What you should do right now, during the next ten minutes, is think about how you're going to keep me _entertained_ from here on and repay the debt you owe me for my services." His tone was grating.

With that, the next couple of minutes were agonizing for the auburn. Like before, she couldn't see much, as he prioritized the overhead light to hang over only where he needed to work. In the beginning it looked and felt as though nothing more than a simple gynecological exam. She even recognized what he was using as a speculum. But it wasn't long before the procedure escalated. Her anxiety climbed further when she felt more cool metal brush against her most intimate, feminine part, and felt her hole being stretched and held open.

"This is a just a prep. All that I've done so far is an examination and measurement. Now I'm going to gradually dilate you with _this." _

There was a hidden smile on his face, but he lifted the cervical dilator, one of the long blunt edged objects up and into her vision. Her skin crawled, and she squeezed her eyes shut not long after taking in its slightly curved design. His explanation of his procedure served only to append to her distress. It was perhaps best that he did not, but of course—likely for this very reason—he did.

It was indeed, a gradual process, but within three minutes, the deed was done. The dilators entered her quite effortlessly, they were likely greased.

He spoke again. "You had said it has been seven weeks since conception. I am basing the amount I dilate you directly from this subjective data of yours. This means that if you did not do your math right, slave, _well… _I should say that the blood will not be on my hands in that case. _Heheh.._" Cioccolata often enjoyed his own sick or witty figures of speech and analogies.

Her mind went into a frenzy as she counted the weeks mentally, narrowing it down. _Seven weeks…seven weeks…! _Her memory almost tripped in on itself in the panic, but she knew that she did the math correct. It had been just a bit over seven weeks since she conceived…since…

But the auburn stopped herself. She couldn't allow thinking about her old life now. Not now. Maybe…at another time…but when would there be another time? Was it guaranteed? Her life may only now standing be a matter of…_a day_… In reality, this was far from the case, but the auburn's worst fears were quite warranted, and so, the reader should excuse her ignorance.

The only thing she could pray now, was that the next eight to ten minutes, if he were true to his word, would pass quickly…but time only passed quickly when you are having fun, or so they say. The auburn then fell into a hopeless fit of incoherent sobs, mumbling sweet nothings that were simply background music to Cioccolata's ears. He was having a good time.

He was careful, whilst prompt. Once he had her open and had a good view of her cervix, and the cannula passed through the neck of her uterus—was undoubtedly the most pain she had felt yet—completing bypassing her earlier deep discomfort. In fact, the feeling sickened her more, her mouth salivated; a clear sign that her bile was rising in her throat. With the cool plastic now deep in her uterus, she had no choice but to brace her sobs, while at the very least, there was no concern over keeping her body still.

The pain wasn't excruciating, but it was enough. It began as a deep discomfort, deep inside of her, the rotating motion the operator attributed to the syringe made her insides turn to jelly, figuratively speaking. He turned the contraption which connected the cannula, making smooth but deliberate motions along her uterine lining, aspirating its contents.

She knew what was happening, not only was the pain something else, gritting her teeth like mad, but the knowledge of it… that was what was far worse for her. Knowing that she was now losing her baby. It was…the most horrible despair for her.

The quack ob-gyn addressed his assistant now, but he didn't look at him, he had nerves of steel and he looked quite fixedly only on what he was doing. "I hope you've been making sure that you're standing where the camera will capture the light, because I can't correct you at the moment. Is everything looking good?"

Secco was standing off to the side still, very close to the action but without causing any shadow or interference overall. He nodded his head goofily, then replying, "Uh-huhhh.. uh-huh! I-it's looking good!"

"Good. I think I need to recharge now, so I can have a look."

He removed the cannula, the syringe now filled with bloody fluid, then disposed its contents in the kidney basin. He didn't want to directly dispose of the waste yet, as it was not clear to him yet if the pregnancy was terminated.

The auburn's face was soaked in sweat, her features were pressed into a long grimace, with furrowed eyebrows and grinded teeth. As any pained patient would hope, she wondered if it were all over. But the hope was a shameful one, for her poor, pitiful self. It was a relief to the pain, whilst being a heartbreak in what the procedure represented in its finality.

Cioccolata spent just half of a minute looking over the footage that Secco gathered thus far, and he was reared to life with the greatest enthusiasm. The auburn's face was exquisite. He patted Secco's head, promising a treat later, then reattached the cannula to the syringe, ready to resume the procedure.

"_AAuuhg!" _The woman cried at the reintroduction of the cannula; her hope being then shattered. He swiftly reinserted it at her opening, but he climbed the oblong object slowly and deliberately through the neck of her uterus until the penetration felt to have pervaded around her uterine cavity. Pins and needles prickled over her frontal, and the nausea hit again.

But the remaining procedure only lasted two minutes longer. She felt an increase of pressure, deep inside. Her cervical tissue seemingly reflexively tightened around the cannula. She was moaning in the agony now, begging him to please to be done, telling him she couldn't take it anymore, and that she was going to puke.

He stopped, removing the instruments one last time, including the tenaculum. It was a relief only in this, feeling the muscles resume their previous enclosure due to its elasticity. But the nausea didn't subside, it only increased exponentially. It was unclear whether this was a mental effect or given the procedure.

Once extracting the pitiful creature, Cioccolata made sure to hold the syringe indifferently to the light, so she was able to see. It was obvious that her physical pain was so great that she was unable to develop tears upon the sight of it. Still, he savored the look of disbelief written in her agony. He pulled back the valve, and carefully emptied the contents once again.

It was a success! He placed a small, berry sized uterine tissue into a specimen cup at the basin. It was a clear contrast to the rest of the wasted fluids, so he separated it from that and the kidney basin. He disposed of the latter's contents into the biohazard waste.

"Well! Well, well, well. Secco, want a treat now?" He said this now, as he laid the rounded fetus flat in his gloved palm. The auburn's eyes shot open wider, the nausea in her stomach intensified, and felt as though her guts clenched.

Secco eyed the creature that was nothing more than a tissue with no clear humanoid development with morbid fascination. There was unmistakable curiosity in his eyes, that much was clear to the sadist, and he had every intention of nurturing that in Secco, who was essentially his protégé.

The auburn was high alert now. She strained to see, despite her sickness, at what was going on with the remains of what would have been a new life. She watched her heinous captor look upon the specimen in his palm, and he spoke anew.

"I'm surprised its mostly intact…" After his reflection, he looked at Secco again, who was still watching him with alertness.

"_Well?_ How 'bout it? Aren't you curious over how it'll taste?" He held out his palm to Secco, who then sniffed it audibly.

The master's zeal was clear in how readily he pressed his hand to his pet, and finally, Secco used his abnormally long tongue to scoop it from his hand. No sooner did the humanoid mutt begin chewing, he had already swallowed. It was like ingesting a single premature blueberry, and Cioccolata patted his head in approval saying, "What a good boy you are!" and then further inquiring on the taste, he himself highly and inappropriately curious over it.

The auburn, shell shocked in what she had experienced, on top of what she had just saw, then felt the bile finally make its way up her esophagus, and she cried out in a sickening tone, alerting the men that she was going to throw up.

"Open the biohazard bin and lift hold it up to her," Cioccolata directed Secco nonchalantly as he was swiftly removing his gloves and cleaning everything up.

Cioccolata stood toward her and maneuvered her face, lifting her head from the padding of the gurney so that her face could be aimed toward the bin. Secco was prompt, and so was her bile. She puked right away into the contents of the waste, being then hit full on with the sight and wretched smell of her own uterine lining, blood, tissue and fluid. She gaged on the smell, and with that, her abdominal muscles convulsed, and she retched harder into the bag. The convulsions seemed to pull on her sutures, but it was hardly a noticeable pain momentarily. Even when her vomiting concluded, the queasiness did not. Her body would not let her forget so easily the life that was snatched from her without mercy or warning.

Cioccolata was very pleased on this occasion, however. Although there was so much more he had wanted to do with her, in summation, he had great fun examining this woman, and he played by his rules as far as how he would allow himself to make use of this room. Since these exams were done, he had no further plan on using the room anymore, for these two women at least. Only to later remove their stitches.

* * *

.

With the blonde also, he also had a hell of a good time. Although, it was a situation which could be described as him succumbing to his compulsions. Even so, the spontaneity of the act was what always made great footage to look back on later, which was exactly what he was doing now. Watching his tapes after his crimes always made the experience feel brand new, and it was quite a treat. You could say that Cioccolata was just as excited about it as Secco is upon receiving a sugar cube.

He had a feeling, as he laid back in the silk sheets that made up his king-sized bed, that he would be creeping back down to the lower levels with a fatty by the time he was done watching this.

The tape began with him performing surgery on her, the camera zooming in at certain parts. The girl was completely naked as was the auburn, the gag still wrapped around her mouth. Cioccolata had lifted the girl's bound wrists above her head for convenience, but in all honesty, it was quite a distraction for him. Secco always knew exactly what he wanted emphasis on usually, but if not, he simply told him where to come around or reposition.

Thinking of it now, this film seemed like pure perfection in how on cue he was to sew her back up, and the timing in which she woke up from her anesthesia. Though, similarly with the other woman, she did not wake up naturally, rather he brought on her waking. It was at the moment he had finished that he had decided to treat himself.

Looking over her small body, her miniature breast, slight hips, and cute little pussy, he couldn't stop himself from running his large hands over her post-pubescent body. He remembered what he now witnessed on film quite well enough; the memory that at that moment, the thought of the girl being only about a couple years past the age of consent awakening a carnal push in him.

Not only that, but he sure after the examination that she was a virgin. He was practically on his toes with the anticipation to confirm his belief. Cioccolata's dick was becoming erect all over again from watching already. He was tempted to start jerking off.

Focusing again on the tape, Cioccolata was seen slowly rubbing her body, and once he reached by her hips, his latex gloved hands traveled downward until his right hand cupped the girl's sex. First pushing her leg to the side, his fingers then separated her lips, revealing fresh pink flesh.

At this moment Cioccolata thought to himself, "Hm. Yeah, this girl had a nicer pussy than the other one. Although the other bitch's was fatter."

A small smile was forming on Cioccolata's mouth on the film, and he was seen spreading her lips as far as he could, seeming to not care about the excess of pressure. His gloved fingers pressed and pulled the nub of her tiny clit upward, revealing the folds and its contents to him as much as possible. He placed one finger in the opening of her vaginal canal and felt how hardly the tip went in with only slight pressure. He was seen then stepping to the end of the operating table, grabbing her legs, and pulling her towards the end of the vertical table until her ass was on the edge, and he folded her legs. A perfect lithotomy position was now in place, it was time to get it on.

He lowered the examination light to overhang the lower half of her body, casting dim shadows over her upper half and face. He lubricated his thick, slightly curved cock just enough so that he could get inside of her, as he had hoped she'd wake up in the middle of this. Once he began getting only half of the tip of his dick in her sweet little hole, her brows were forming a grimace, and she awakened with a gasp at the perversion of what he was doing.

Secco had zoomed in on it, and at this point in the tape Cioccolata had to calm down beating his dick or her expression might have put him close to the pinnacle too soon. He had recalled the exquisite feeling of how her pussy had also tightened around his dick head in response to that shock. And he had also recalled how, when his bright green eyes met her turquoise blue, there was something else in hers which weren't just the base sadness anymore, or even the shock or despair, but something else that he had never quite seen before.

He fancied that she looked at him as an underling would behold their God, not one of worship, but of the greatest fear imaginable—but perhaps he was getting a big head in the act, and he imagined it. Nonetheless, the look she gave him for that instance stirred his curiosity. There would be more time to witness this again, to see if she would look at him like that again.

His attention coming back into full focus on the tape when he heard himself saying, "I'm so pleased to see you awake, little girl."

He watched himself again, and saw how, gripping the front of the girl's thighs with his gloves still on, he pushed himself slowly but steadily into her. The slowness of the act meant to draw out the most pain. The girl reflexively yanked her bound wrists over her chest again, but the slight movement brought a pain she had no awareness of from the stitches in her belly, and she yelped into her gag.

But the dull, sharp pain of Cioccolata's dick pushing unwelcomely into her, must had to have stirred her anew to naturally, attempt to pull her lower half away from him, but with his grip, to no avail at all. Even if she continued to, it would likely only have brought on the pain of her surgery once more. Green Day enabled him to possess inhumanly remarkable surgical skills, building upon the expertise he had already possessed. Though she was carefully sewn with the aided power of Green Day, it should go without saying that it still left her in pain. As a bonus, however, the stitches would close fast with this added ability. Meaning, slave training would not have to be pushed back for much.

Cioccolata's mouth broke into a full toothy grin and chuckle knowing that he had used the surgery as a bonus pain to her, and to force her into submission. He could imagine that the helplessness of it had to be enough to already break the young girl, as no matter if she resisted or subdued herself, it would be met with great torment. He remembered, as he watched now, the confirmation in his belief about her, besides of course, the bleeding. The feeling of her canal closing off somewhat as if in the shape of a triangle; flesh narrowing inward and meeting at the hymen. He pushed through that flesh with the patient tenacity of a bull, every intention of deflowering the girl in the least romantic or careful sense.

He didn't try to make it easy on her, he alternated between holding her legs open against him, and then closing them, using no strategic position to make the process easier. If anything, holding her legs closed against him, he made it a tougher procedure. Perhaps some other man would be rather impatient at this point to get to full thrusts, and no doubt, he was looking forward to it. However, the reward that comes with insufferable despair and torture to his victims made it all worth the wait. And so, he used his dick as if it were a sword.

Continuing to watch as these moments, besides sounds of restraints, the girl uselessly clawing at her bondage, lifted her head then dropping it again, he could hear his own smooth, seductive voice saying, "Keep trying to resist me like that, slave. It'll make you suffer more." He meant it too much, for he drank her torment in like wine.

The girl's muffled screams filled much of the tape, and he tried to brace himself. He couldn't help but be entirely fixated on the screen now. And having tuned everything in his surroundings and everything in his mind out, he was completely enamored with her cries, just as he was when he committed this atrocity; the brutal rape of a teenaged girl.

Later in the tape, Cioccolata was seen taking her at a slower pace, which, to begin with, was already deliberately slow; but his pace slowed down more as he pushed one of her thighs down harder against the table, in the direct line of view of the camera. This gave a better angle, and as a result, the length of his tan dick was seen fully well penetrating her with streaks of blood. From the looks of it too, the only lubrication now was undoubtedly his precum. In the flesh, he was groaning, and seeing the tears running down her face, and her white teeth tearing into the gag produced a steady load of sperm in his balls. Luckily for him now, while still trying to hold off finishing, the film was soon reaching its end.

He recalled and could tell in how he was fucking her now, that he was getting ready to cum, and the same excitement that filled him then, he was now being overcome with once more. He could see and remembered how badly he wanted to let himself naturally lose control, break her neck as he strangled her and then spilling his seed deep inside her soon lifeless pussy… But he knew he had to preserve the body still for further use, further despair, as much pain as possible. Not to mention that he couldn't be too rough as to ruin his carefully sewn handiwork on her belly.

Nevertheless, his pace did quicken somewhat, and he was seen pulling out the entire length of his cock up to the head, and then shoving back himself back into her. And although she was petite, he had enough ass to grab as he emptied himself balls deep inside of her with a low growl. The expert cameraman that was Secco switched between fixating on Cioccolata's dick covered in the slime and blood of torn vaginal lining, and then creeping up the girl's body until he locked it still on the blonde's face with glazed over eyes and shell-shocked expression.

"_Bene! What an exquisite expression!"_ He thought in ecstasy as he came anew, letting out a guttural groan as his cum shot squirted a short distance on his umbilical, while the rest oozed over his hand. He didn't give a fuck.

Now he laid back on his bed and thought over the experience he just had just relived through witnessing. Really, it was only one night ago, but he had no patience when it came to his newly recorded tapes. He reveled in watching over them not long ago they were made like a giddy child, and maybe this was a child like aspect of him which never ever departed from his being. And even now, he had the mischievous smirk of a young brat drawn over his features.

He couldn't wait until he was able to remove both women's stiches, and given another week a most, he could really ravage them how he wanted to. This romp with the blonde was an unexpected one, but a willing surrender. He could still feel the mouthwatering feel of her tight virgin hole pulsating around his girth, a likely spasmatic muscular reaction to the violation wrought upon her. The violence in him roused his deepest primal desires, and it only ever produced a domino effect in his blood lust, the next actions growing more extreme—ending in murder.

Sex doesn't end at the climax, rather the climax brands a new chain of torture with the goal to push that body to the limit of its functions. How much can you abuse the body before the heart stops? How much can the body endure before all major pathways shut down? What moment does the blood vessels discontinue their transport of oxygen to the brain? And what is the first malfunction to signal the doom to the rest of the major organ systems? There was so much variation! And no matter who he killed, there was always variables in this grand experiment! Not one person died exactly the same—no one looked exactly the same thanks to phenotypical variation, and though there were some correlations and ranges, the amount of time it took for someone to breathe their last was subject to differences in seconds, minutes, hours!

As he laid here reveling in his passion and jerking his still erect dick, the background noise of his own voice on the tape reached him, and he lifted his head only to look again.

"You got all that right Secco? Did you make sure you captured those looks of despair she made? She did it a lot. Please tell me that was all recording…"

The image on the screen nodded up and down with a louder grunt of assurance. It then stilled back on Cioccolata's tall, sculped body, showing him smirking triumphantly at the camera and saying "_Excellent._"

He's then seen rubbing his soiled dick against the girl's opening, all the way up to her clit, while her lower half squirmed anew in a likely ignition of flame. He chuckled to her reaction, then bends over slightly to spread apart her swollen lips revealing his nut oozing out mixed with clots of bloody mucus. There was no way to tell which blood was wrought by the defloration or the tearing from the brutality. Not only was she bruised, but the bottom of her labia was torn; creating a perineum tear. It looked sore just to see. The camera zooms on this and you can hear Cioccolata's voice sweetening, saying "Do you see all that? That looks good doesn't it? Why don't you lick it all up and clean her off, huh? You'll get five.. no, seven sugar cubes if you do."

At the mention of the sweets, the camera gets shaky, the footage quality becomes poor as if the camera man's nerves are suddenly shot. Then you hear an outburst of obnoxious grunts with little discernable language, although it can be made out to be sound effects of pure elation.

Cioccolata's face is seen laughing on the film, and he walks to the camera saying "Here, I'll take it from here. Now go! No wasting time."

Secco is seen first sniffing the girl's pussy, who is starting to become more conscious, aware of stranger's approach, and she gasps with renewed anxiety. Cioccolata chuckles as he now controls the camera like days of old, the master camera man.

Well, looks like it was round two. He thought this, and his fist gripped his hardening cock.

The camera remains on Secco using his abnormally long tongue to eat out the girl's pussy, hardly holding back from diving his entire face against it. As a result, the entirety of his mouth and parts of his nose and chin are covered with her blood and Cioccolata-nut. He drags the camera up her body, lingering somewhat on her breast, neck, and settling on her disturbed and grimacing face, which at one point, her eyes dart to, and seemingly stare into the eyes of the live Cioccolata—the light of the film shining in his eyes.

On the film, in an exclamation, he is heard saying "OOooooOoOhh!" And this is echoed by him watching now in person. How very wonderful! Too good to be true!

He grips his dick with igniting fervor and beats the shit out of his meat to the pleading and pitiful eyes of the girl. Her tear-filled turquoise eyes are reduced to the look of a pigs on the slaughter table. There was no more shame at all in her eyes as she stared into the camera, simply someone clinging to their life, only caring for their life, and Cioccolata's mind jumped up and down when he realized that he had must have been just beginning to break the girl's psyche. He felt a thick nut climbing up from his prostate, signaling a near end for his next orgasm.

The camera is seen stepping closer to the girl's face, and Cioccolata's free hand is seen wrapping around her throat, his thumb pressing forcefully into her larynx, resulting in her to breathe much more heavily through her nose, increasing her distress. Her eyes now so much closer to the camera, so much closer to his, warms his heart now in the darkest way imaginable.

The idea that this little girl was depending on him for life, and that she surely knew that their life was his, that he had full, ultimate control of whether she lived, or she died. This is the greatest feeling; this is what truly made him feel above humanity. It was a God like feeling, and he felt like a self-proclaimed Angel of Death. Good God...he lived for this.

His grip on her neck tightened, digging his thumb deeper into her throat, and his husky voice is heard humiliating her with "You are _my slave_. _My pet_. _My bitch_. I am your master. I own you, and you belong to me...Understand?"

The blonde sobbed into her gag in response, her eyes squeezing shut fresh pools of tears, wetting and highlighting the length of her lashes. Her natural beauty and the brightness of her eyes showcased by her tears moved him wickedly. Her hyperventilated cries sent her nearly choking on her gag, and Cioccolata's index finger was seen flicking hard against her temple, the camera coming straight into her eyes, the camera man apparently leaning closer to her face.

"Hey, hey. How about giving a befitting response to your master?" Then, resting the palm of his hand against her cheek, he smacked her cheek a few times with only enough force to alert her, each smack getting a bit harder. "Give me an answer, pet."

She quickly nodded her head and gasped a sound close to "Uh-huh." And with that, he was satisfied.

"Good. Very good. Good girl.." He responded with a demonically sweet voice, and he used his fingers to wipe her tears away. Then changing tones almost simultaneously, he commanded Secco. "You're done. Stop now. I hope it tasted good. Come get your treat."

The camera was then set down on a high enough table to see the lower half of his body, and Secco squirming around on the floor. He's seen tossing the agreed seven sugar cubes to Secco, the latter ravenously chewing them all apart and eating any that fell from his mouth off the floor.

Needless to say, the in the flesh Cioccolata had already busted his second nut back while he was watching himself choke and berate the girl, and he now watched the rest as if he were floating on a cloud.

On the tape, Cioccolata then is seen walking back around to the girl's pussy, as she now instinctually shut her legs tight in shame, but he reopened them forcefully. He is heard telling Secco to pick up the camera and resume recording, which is pursued promptly.

After opening them, Cioccolata slaps one of her thighs hard, and her body jumps in response, pulling at her stitches, which he sees now and torn on some of her skin quite a bit. He knows that while he was fucking her, they hadn't moved by much, but now, they apparently had abraded her wounds, and likely loosened them.

"Secco, you fucking animal. You just gave me more work to do. I ought of make you regurgitate those cubes."

Secco whined in response, and speaking again he moaned "Cioccolataaaa... I-I couldn't help it.."

Cioccolata had subdued his frustration and spoke to his new pet again. "Papà is finished for now, pet." And he paused, looking as though he was gauging her response, and savoring her new expressions. He continued, "But I'll be back for you once your stitches have to be taken out. I'm going to fix what he did, okay?" His voice sweetened at the okay, and a seemingly genuine smile of a good-natured physician lit his features, and his green eyes sparkled in a devious way that betrayed the notion.

With hardly a pause, the girl nodded her head again and whimpered. She was quick.

His smile vanished and he impersonally commanded Secco to cut the tape, that they were done, as he's seen nonchalantly removing his gloves.

The screen went black, a marvelous tape of about an hour and forty-five minutes having abruptly reached its conclusion. Cioccolata was so relaxed by the therapeutic experience, that he laid back with his arms behind his head and soon drifted off to sleep, earlier than usual. In this moment, he was content in knowing that all that had to be done was to give these women the time they needed to heal, at least mostly, and then he could have even more fun with them.

.


	3. Chapter 3

"_I feel a little sorry baby,_

_I hear the afterlife is poorly scored._

_You're lucky you don't have to wake up_

_Sick, sick, sick, sick._

_I'm sick of immortality."_

_~I Want To Kill You Like They Do In The Movies, Marilyn Manson_

* * *

.

_**Capitolo lll:**_

_-Formazione schiava: seconda fase-_

_31, October 1999_

Luckily for the Master and gimp, the Boss sent new orders for a few jobs that kept them busy long enough to give the slaves time to heal, as well as grow more accustomed to their way of living. They would soon become well trained bitches that would eat his shit if he so desired it. Cioccolata was also excited that he got a job on mischief night, ohhhh, how fortunate! This was perfect for Halloween!

The jobs also gave Cioccolata a sense of great accomplishment with his time, and new snuff films for the collection. He was going to have to invest in another bookshelf at this rate. He had just got done watching over his last job's tape, where he and Secco tortured three hitmen from a village vicinal to Rome. He had to admit, this one came out pretty fucking neat-o.

He had the good fortune to try out a method of execution he had read about that the Nazis supposedly performed. Cioccolata's passion for experimenting many different forms of executions throughout history ran deep in his blood, in fact, he was almost convinced upon his speculation that he may have perhaps, Druid roots. However, this was just one of few tribes which he felt he was connected to by blood, as he was also inclined to speculate on other Germanic tribes such as the Visigoths, Franks, or Vandals. To add upon this infatuation, Cioccolata experienced quixotic fantasies revolving around war, conquering, and looting, which thence poured into his glorification of what was once Ancient Rome.

Roman styles of execution were also known like the back of his hand, the work of Emperors Caligula, Nero and Octavius especially interesting. A great man such as Caesar went without saying. He was also a man of good ancestral taste and appreciation. Despite being anything but a good Christian, Cioccolata entertained an attraction to Christian artwork and architecture all around. Given his upbringing, it was socially natural. Italy was a dominant, namely Roman Catholic society. After all, it was home to the Vatican. Therefore, Cioccolata's attraction to the arts was only a matter of social construction and childhood sentiment than anything of spiritual fiber. However, his stronger attraction to Ancient Rome, before the fall, before the Byzantine Empire, rather made him interpret Christianity in a dark filter. Moreover, he wanted Rome back: if he could one day do so by force, as he hoped in his wildest dreams, he would.

All in all, this resulting fixation of Pagan tribes and Roman execution styles in particular influenced his choice of "work clothes," hairstyle, and face paint (war paint). He felt great pride especially, to don the war paint. It could almost be said that he felt that he was activating a bloodline of his, something which flowed through him, but may have been so long ago—and in previous generations—lost entirely. Through applying the green face paint across his forehead horizontally, down the bridge of his nose, matching vertical stripes down both of his cheeks, carefully accentuating his cheekbones—this! _This! _

Yes. It was as though he called upon a spirit within him, Cioccolata. A spirit that may have been lost in his blood through admixture, through various crossing and splitting of the blood, like any other Italian… This spirit within him, it could have been lost altogether had he remained a docile sheep like the rest, but his _curiosity_ saved him from this. Ultimately, it saved his blood line; essentially, he was a reincarnated being, with the purpose to revive the glory of what was once his blood.

What did this all entail though? It would seem like crazy talk to a normie. _It meant that he was driven_, he felt, by fate, he was commanded to take the lives of the weak, to relieve them of their ultimate sin—_weakness._ If he could not rule over the weak…_yet, _then he will exterminate them.

It was true, Cioccolata may have been acceptable in some of his other views, most of which were shocking to the bubbles most normal people operated in, but it could be said that the world broke through to him. He experienced a major disconnect, he went mad, long ago. Not because of his misanthropic nature, no, it wasn't that. He was a typical sadistic anarchist in a way; he blamed society for the degeneration of the world, and so Death and its edicts became his world view, his only philosophy. He didn't adhere to a God; only strong men could call themselves God, only men who can and will kill, furthermore, only men like him who revel in war, bloodshed, suffering.

And it was in the moments following immediately after taking a person's life, Cioccolata was not only filled with utmost happiness, but a feeling as though he had transcended humanity in some way or another, and he fantasized that he was a type of Angel of Death. It should be stated, the only reason he had to so sneakily satisfy his blood lust in such perverted ways was because of this damned society! And so, it was civilization itself which Cioccolata resented most of all, more than anything else; it stifled his urges, those which he felt were perfectly normal, completely natural.

And now coming back to his job, with this experiment in the said form of execution, he tied up all the men's hands behind their backs and hung all three men within the same noose. Had this been before he became a stand-user, this would have been quite a job. But with the help of a lovely power-type stand such as Green Day, it was nothing to lift them all.

This style of execution was so exquisite to witness, as its purpose made the strangulation process a lot longer, increasing the suffering for all individuals; especially the one who hangs between the two, as the flow of oxygen is especially restricted. Needless to say, it was so fascinating to see which one of them would die first, and which would die last, and how long each took before it happened!

Secco filmed the entire thing as usual, and Cioccolata sat on a white plush armchair, with his legs crossed sometimes, and other times folded over his other knee, whilst indulging in red wine and mozzarella like the gangster that he was. Somehow, the toothpick between his thumb and pointer, which he used to stick the balls of mozzarella, would never look the same again to a pure eye. This act alone seemed to garner a type of horror, considering the man who did it. And yet, the feeling of unease would have been rectified if one was able to have the blessing to witness this fleshly Zeus giving himself sustenance. To watch how the balls of well processed cheese passed between his full black lips, and how his jaws—working in antagonistic pairs—reduced the bites to mash within the paradise it was to be inside his internal anatomy…Oh, how glorious it would be.

Yet this occurrence, while shared in the presence of four men, in space went unnoticed. For all the men's attentions were focused on seemingly better things: three men struggling for air, fighting the pain of the biting rope tied around their necks, and the force of gravity and each other's weights pulling each other further, and a man whose job was to record it all. It could be seen as disrespectful that no one admired this sight that was Cioccolata.

It was a relief then, that the gangster felt no slight. While he knew that he was a glory of a sight, perhaps the best sight in the whole of Italy, he was not insecure in that he required the attentions or praise of others. Everything simply came to him in part of his magnificence.

And even though he sat here seemingly lounging and enjoying himself, he was not discourteous to these men. Every few minutes or so he was sure to speak to them, asking them an array of questions and if they even have any questions for him like any good practitioner would. He even explained to them his procedure before hanging them! In addition to all this, he spoke to them about his own topics of interest, including his theories of happiness and curiosity. Albeit they didn't have any useful responses, it was still quite enjoyable dialogue for him.

About two and a half hours later the last of the men had died off, and with good timing, as he was becoming shockingly bored. The entire time he had been preoccupied between talking to them, taking notes and drawing pictures of their expressions as they were dangling at Death's door. Usually he's much more hands on, and as a matter of fact, he preferred it. He _was_ once a surgeon, after all! Cioccolata just didn't feel quite himself if he wasn't cutting, slicing, severing, or chopping…_even so_…it furthered his research, and so this was all still satisfactory if not useful.

As of now, it was Halloween night, and Cioccolata had leftover dinner at some point while watching this. Altogether, the duration made it the average length of any TV show. But truth be told, he only watched his home-made movies. There might have been better things to do Halloween night. He used to enjoy handing out candy when he was in his mid to late twenties, before he had made major renovations to his estate. That is to say, it previously was a much larger mansion, with sufficient land enough to compliment the vicinity. Cioccolata had made the decision to tear a good chunk of it down, mostly toward the posterior end of the residence. In doing so, he cleared out more room for the surrounding forest to retake what was once in nature hers.

Now, given how private, and quite frankly, creepy the property looked, it was rare any children came around these parts. It didn't help that he kept his large front gate closed while he was home. Although, especially given the season spirit, you would think they would. Still, it was no surprise that the pampered children around these parts didn't have much balls to back their parent's bank accounts. _Perhaps next Halloween_… he thought.

He had a bit of a conundrum however while watching…at several points, he had forwarded the video only to rewind again, ending in him pausing to contemplate. Should he really just watch a half an hour of three guys one rope? However, upon further speculation, he concluded that he didn't have much else better to do these days; time management was hardly a thing. It surely wasn't the most exciting he produced, the lack of blood and slicing left him comparatively bored, oh but of course there were good parts…

The _expressions!_ Looking deep enough, it always felt as though he was just on the brink of finding exactly what he was looking for. When their eyes rolled back into their heads, or when their pupils dilated—sometimes to the point that he could see just the blacks and whites of their eyes—it felt as though he was at the breaking point of this grand experiment of his. The curiosity fueled him past the hills and valleys, but ultimately left him incomplete. If you were to simply say that this man drew out torture for the sake of the pleasure of it in itself, you would be wrong. It was a spiritual and emotional journey for him, let alone a source of great knowledge. _And then _came the pleasure in it all. What made it all worth his while.

Ah…it was really true. Taking lives made him finally feel alive. In everyday life, especially before he joined Passione, it was hard to say that Cioccolata was ever _feeling. _Perhaps it was biological, did he simply have a lack of activity in his prefrontal cortex? Was he born with neurological dysfunction? It was certainly plausible, it seems he only _felt _when he indulged in the most basic, primal, no, natural pleasures—murder and sex. It sounds contradictory, but in actuality, it made all the sense in the world. Murder and sex. Death and life. Yes. Thrill seeking behaviors, it always revolved around this. And for most of his life, he had felt so stifled. It was strange. To go from confinement to freedom, so suddenly, only after what was supposed to be the best years of his life. Now, close to his mid-thirties, he could _almost _fully unleash. And yet… there was still a confliction. A barrier, a pressure.

_The Boss…_he thought. He shook away the thought, now was not the time. It was time for…_other_ business.

Making his way down to his immaculate marble kitchen, he dropped off his dishes in the sink, which he would just have Secco do, then made his way to the lower levels. Cioccolata had already phoned Secco earlier to tell him to meet him down there at the appointed time, camera ready of course. It was drawing near 7:30 PM, and he was dressed and ready in his "work clothes." The last time they had seen him like this was when he had kidnapped them on September 24th. He had hoped that it would produce a striking effect in awakening their memory, along with the usual apprehension at the macabre of it.

He thought about the dates just a bit. Mischief night, when he had murdered the three gangsters, fell on a Saturday; Saturn-day. And so, Halloween fell on a Sunday this year. It made him quite happy to know that he would be paying his first visit to his slaves as their master on the Sun's day. _Amazing, _he thought to himself in glee. He would surely keep a ritual of disciplining his slaves on the most symbolically fitting of the esoteric days. With that, he made his way down the spiral stone stairway to the lower levels, his steps working their way around the mounds.

Once he emerged downstairs and around the corner, he spotted Secco at the cell of the busty auburn. It appeared that he was harassing her. He was shaking the bars of the cell and growling at her. This woman, who Cioccolata already learned was much louder and always pitifully shown her fear, was backed in the corner of the cell, shuddering and holding her arms around her legs, which were huddled up against her face. It pleased him that as soon as he walked up beside Secco, when she at once opened her eyes and spotted him, that her despair seemed to shoot through the roof.

Cioccolata produced from his pocket the key for the cell, and taking the padlock in his hand, began fiddling the key inside. The woman pitifully pressed herself further against the wall, squeezing her back into it as if there were any possibility she was going to go back further, or that the wall would magically fall in and give her a route of escape. Tears were almost bursting from her eyelids as she whined and pleaded that he not hurt her; but his only initial response was the slow grin which formed over his black matte lips. He lied through his teeth, assuring her by saying, "Don't worry, I won't hurt you," in a smooth tone.

It produced a look of a shock and confusion on her features, but her body language didn't betray her initial fear. Knowing the other girl was in the cell opposite, and probably had been startled awake from her high-strung nerves upon this cell door opening, made Cioccolata much more excited. Still, he didn't break his focus on the plans he had for this one.

Secco was very excited for this too. Cioccolata already agreed to let him get in on this one, as this woman after all, was Secco's pick. For about the entirety of the week, Cioccolata was aware of Secco's sneaking to the lower levels and he knew it was to gawk at the auburn. He had no idea what exactly he did, but he knew he couldn't get in the cell or do anything to her, as Cioccolata was the only one with the keys. Secco wouldn't do anything against his orders anyway. His trust in him was great.

As Cioccolata opened the cell and stepped foot inside, he looked down at the auburn creature, taking in her pauper-like appearance. Both women were previously dressed in the same ill-fitting hospital gowns that they were in after he had removed their stitches a couple of days ago, credit to Green Day. That is, they were too small, but that was how he planned it. If they were put into compromising positions, which they most certainly would be, their ass and pussy would inevitably show and likely bring them further distress and discomfort. It would also be easy to rip…this thought alone was enough to plaster a perverted grin over his cheeks.

As these women were left in the cells, they were only fed and never moved since the day not long after he operated on them. Thus, they had not been bathed, but this was all as well. For now, at least, he did not want to make them feel comfortable in any way. These times would be strictly discipline instilling lessons, especially for the auburn, who was still not particularly to his full liking. His preference being the blonde girl, on top of the fondness he had for her, made him wonder if he would consider making her his "favorite" pet, and just what he would do with the auburn. It mattered little to him if he discriminated against her more, obviously. Some people, like what he discovered with Secco, are just "pet material," and it was hard to resist the urge to keep them indefinitely as such.

On one hand, it was super fun to deal with a woman like the auburn, who will likely scream at every chance and even at slightly unbearable pain. But after a solid hour, that starts to get irritating, and the urge will likely come in to smash her skull into the ground. This was all very likely to happen, but he was going to have to reign in that Mars energy if he wanted this all to work out with no problems.

Once his shadow loomed over her in the dimness of his dungeon, he stopped and knelt before her, and she shrank away further, enchasing herself in an imaginary barrier. He smirked sardonically at her already effete life force.

"Hey, look at me." He spat coldly.

She squeezed her eyes shut in response, cramming part of her face in the crevice of the wall. Surely there was any place she'd rather be than a dark, chilly dungeon with a freaky looking man and drooling dog-man watching over her.

Similar to what he did before with the blonde, he placed his hand upon her cheek and slapped her, forcing her to look at him, with the exception that this slap was a bit harder than the other. There was already a distinguishable difference in his treatment of her.

When her eyes met his, he bored into hers with a clear threat. Her whining ceased, and just like that, she tried, with obvious torment, to keep her eyes locked on his.

He squeezed her chin in his hand and said, "Good. Now listen well. I am your master. You are my slave. You will address me as Master Cioccolata. If you're a good girl, I will promote you to pet-status, and then I will give you a name."

This statement was a bit misleading. Regardless of if they impressed him with good behavior or not, he was still going to keep them in the dungeon for a month. One of Cioccolata's favorite things to do was to manipulate and mess with people's heads. It was incredibly thrilling for him, and he loved to see them react the way same way, each and every time. It validated to him that he truly did understand the psychology of humanity. But he smiled anyway as he said this, and as charming as it may usually be, it only worked to create tears in the auburn's nutmeg hued eyes. His dick hardened at the sight of it, and he felt instantly like he was ready to go already. So, he cut it short.

"But if you're a _bad girl_, I will punish you with _no_ mercy and _no_ restraints _whatsoever_. And right now, I'm going to discipline you as befitting for my property." He let her face go, then stood back up.

With that, he ordered Secco, "Go around the corner and bring that table over here, then get the camera ready."

Secco was all too visibly eager to do so as he nodded five times and quickened his pace out of the cell. The sound of wheels was soon heard as he pushed the white rectangular, multi-leveled table around the corner and into the cell. Once the wheels halted, there was a pause, and the only thing heard was the auburn's heavy breathing. Her mind likely automatically seized upon the last time she spent with him in the surgery room, and she started gasping for air. The tears that formed in her eyes from before now formed streams down her cheeks.

Cioccolata took a seat at a tall wooden stool he had placed in the front corner of the cell; the king's stool. He erupted in laughter at her reaction, and he reassured her by saying in a honey-sweet tone, "Calm down. I told you I'm not going to hurt you. I'm only disciplining you. Every good master knows they have to discipline their new slave, right?!" He raised his voice at this as if in jest. But the humor was lost on the auburn. She started whimpering and crying anew, squeezing her limbs into herself.

With the table of his toys now beside him in the cell, along with Secco, who panted wildly as he fumbled with the camera, Cioccolata decided it was a good time for a little discussion with his slave. Some more actions of delaying gratification on his part. On the auburn's, prolonged despair and anticipation. _Good._

He straightened his posture in the stool, one of his long legs hanging down, brown loafer connected to the cold stone floor, his other knee bent on the horizontal blanks. His heart then flapped in his chest, the type of feeling you have when you know you're about to have a good time; a type of pleasurable anxiety. _Oh, yes… _

He stared at the ceiling for a bit, took a long deep breath, and released it as his eyes came back down to the delicious looking creature on the floor, pathetically holding her bag of bones together as if they'd fall apart at the ligaments; shaking and quivering—overrunning with jitters that pulsated through her face—teeth chattering involuntarily. Cioccolata's lids rested upon the whites of his eyes as if he were witnessing a mid-summer's dream. But it was disrupted only by Secco's panting.

"Secco. Sit down, leave the camera be for now." Cioccolata calmed directed him.

Secco then obeyed, seating himself in a straddled position on the stone beside his master's feet befitting a human dog.

Without further ado, Cioccolata began his ramble, remarking on the joyous feeling he had been experiencing since beginning the series of steps in realizing his dream; this dungeon. It was now story time with Papà Mold.

"It's interesting… just in case you haven't been keeping track, today is Samhain." He smiled at her again, sardonically, then continued, "It is my most _preferred _time of the year. And it is exactly why I have established my dungeon now, just in time for this three-day celebration. The truth is, I could have waited until the renovations were complete before I took you both, but I couldn't risk interference on the timing. Forgive me."

His apology seemed sincere enough, perhaps he _really_ meant it. He spoke loud enough so that it can be assumed that the blonde across the way, was also hearing this speech. It was natural that Cioccolata would be something of a public speaker, given the nature of his previous profession.

"…They say that the unseen dimensions which separate the veiled spirits and the unveiled is thin; thus, producing a gateway for the unveiled. Can you feel it? _I can_. The spiritual energy is now at its highest. _Savor it_." He paused briefly, and Secco was now staring up at him as if in a trance. The auburn too, was drawn in already, whilst her olive complexion grew pallor as the minutes drew on.

Cioccolata's features moved beautifully in sync as he spoke, his black lips formed and worded each syllable perfectly, not once was his mouth crooked, his jaws never laid ill-defined. The forest green of his eyes was alive passionately; the spiritual energy he commended seemingly radiated through them as he continued his reflection to the auburn and the more distant blonde.

His next line seemed to be a diversion on his previous statements, however, they firmly connected to his point and the direction. "I love my job. It almost rivals how much I loved my last. Just yesterday, I was able to send off three men to the Otherworld. As you can imagine, the journey then must have been an easy one. You see, this is my contribution to Samhain. I have aided the spiritual evolution of those men."

The auburn's throat went dry, once his implication was clear to her; it could have no other meaning. Her breath once was relaxed just a bit, but it now sped up again.

His eyes glanced slowly to the table holding his toys. He continued in a lower tone, "Death was never meant to be something we feared. Never did we celebrate Life and not her…" he trailed off, but he glanced to the auburn yet again, who hung on his word now with the look of a mouse caught in a trap.

"_Lover_…" He finished, a slow grin casting a clear innuendo marking his features. He watched the woman for its effect, and it seemed evident she caught his meaning, as she seemed to cling to her dignity more; circling her arms around her breast and curling.

When he was satisfied with observing her expressions upon his words, he put his head down, smirked, then continued. He changed direction just a bit from there on, "The men that I have killed, and all that I have ever killed, and ever will—in their last moments we have provided each other with a type of mutualism; we have both ascended. Perhaps those men will come back now spiritually evolved. Stronger. More fit. Life _is _survival of the fittest…" he trailed off from there, but then he looked the auburn straight in the eye as he spoke again.

"Fate _commands_ me to discipline and prey on the weak. What I feel is not anger nor hatred. This duty of mine _sanctifies_ me in my own evolution. You see, curiosity is the driving force behind human evolution. Forget what _they _taught you about evolution. The will to survive in the harsh environments did not prompt our human-like ancestors to develop tools. It was not only an enlarged cranium… No. It was the spiritual power when one's curiosity is _stimulated_. _This curiosity_ brought about the selection of homo sapiens. _This curiosity _is what separates us from them."

Secco, during this portion of the speech, fixed his attention instead on the auburn; he had most definitely heard the famous curiosity speech time and time again. The auburn, on the other hand, was getting brain fucked so to speak. The mad gleam in the man's eyes terrified her even more, so she instead fixated on his black lips and white teeth with her strained, stressed and blood shot eyes. Her shivering never ceased.

If his posture was becoming relaxed, Cioccolata now corrected it. He titled his face to the right, almost as if it were intentionally meant to let the auburn witness the gloried definition of his jaw and cheekbone pronounced by the iris matching forest green face paint which trailed its way down to a menacing point. Her eyes traced the dark outer lining of this makeup, but not without a chill running down her spine.

"Curiosity in a man is _the most important feature._ If he is curious, he will be inspired to experiment and pursue what the weak men will not. He is not afraid of Death, of Life; he is like the son of Mars. He will kill mercilessly; not only by command like a _soldato—_but he will revel in war, in slaughter." He spoke with his hands now, more so than before, emphasizing his point with the wave of his palm.

And now, it seemed rather abrupt, however Cioccolata raised himself from his stool, and the six-foot-three-inch shadow of his entirety fell upon the auburn until the darkness was all that she could presently see.

"I will not kill you, or any of my slaves, unless it is absolutely necessary. I will instead _nurture _your own evolution."

And now, he fiddled through his toys on the table, hardly being able to contain himself anymore at the finale of his speech. His fingers lingered over the floggers, contemplating which he would use tonight. His other hand was clutching the waist of his bright white trousers, close to his crotch. This was a typical mannerism he exhibited since he was a later teenager. In doing so, the waist band trailed down his hip a bit; he was never concerned with the incorporation of a belt when in his work clothes—his comfortability was paramount. It was quite a provocative stance for him however, as this lowering of the waist band revealed, ever more clearly, the black patent leather of his thongs.

Slight clanking was heard from his tools on the table, this unnerved the auburn further, who had no idea what was lying there.

He then continued, "…And women have to be handled a bit differently than men." And there it was, another clear beautiful grin of the perfect killer.

The auburn's eyes met Cioccolata's again, as he turned again to face her, and this time she finally formed actual words without all the excessive stuttering that was usual for her.

"P-please, please... please...don't hurt me.._anymore.._"

She was again becoming irritating. He spent a good five minutes on his introductory speech, and this is all the feedback she had to give him? Maybe she needed to clear all the wax from her ears; she obviously did not hear him when he said that he would not be killing her. He _did _say he wouldn't hurt her before that, though it was a white lie.

Luckily Cioccolata was a man of patience with his slaves/pets. To make this point clear, he then stepped toward her again and threw a swift, but intermediate kick of his loafer into her rib cage. Very likely that the tenseness of her overall body made this action come off as more shocking, producing more pain, for the auburn cried out on impact, holding her torso in response.

He stepped back with his hands on his hips afterward and seemed to be carefully observing her response. With a look of indifference on his face he commented on her condition, "I've dealt with people like you. You're a dramatic..." Afterward he fell back into thoughts as he looked over her, spotting her thick round ass on the floor as she curled up in a ball weeping.

Finally, she looked up hesitantly at him with betrayed eyes and spoke, lighter than a feather, "You s-said you wouldn't hurt me.."

"Please." He spat indifferently. "Like I wouldn't hurt a piece of shit like you. _Know your place."_ Really, he just lied. But then, his voice made a bit of a shuffle in tone as he then addressed Secco.

"Hey, Secco. Do you have the video ready yet?"

Secco was fiddling with the camera, looking at the buttons as though he hadn't been operating this for at least two years already.

"Uhhh..Uhh.. Uherrrmm." He looked like he was experiencing some anxiety from Cioccolata finally noticing.

Cioccolata stood there looking down at him now with a disgusted expression, his patience was running thin. He gave him twenty seconds to get it started. When he didn't, Cioccolata bent down and snatched it out of his hand.

Secco made distressed cries, whining "N-nooo, Ciocoooolaaaataaa! I a-a-almost had it! I wanted to figure it out!"

Cioccolata gave no reply as he pressed the buttons like second nature, then handed it back to Secco. The latter looked at the screen with a mix of pleasure and disappointment, but he fixed himself and began backing up as far as he could into the cell to scan the entire scene. He would be as quiet as a mouse, as much as he could, for this one.

As the auburn laid sobbing, barely noticing Cioccolata and Secco's shenanigans, the former had knelt by her, and suddenly shoved her body over so that she was laying on her stomach. Her ass was already hanging out, so he pulled up the gown and revealed the entirety of it. Now he was already cheesing.

"Ooooh, what a nice fat ass you have.. Papà will bust it open really good, alright?" Cioccolata has a habit of probing his subjects, often asking many questions in order to build a mental note of the types of characters he was dealing with. After all the people he's done this with, including patients, he was able to label each in their own category. He regarded women especially as simple creatures, and so, there was only so many types he'd come across. He just as well, always had a habit of ending his questions on a sweet note, and as he said this, he was caressing both of her ass cheeks between his hands in a very invasive fashion.

The auburn's body was recoiling as much as it could against his touch, and with her face on the floor she cried, "No, no! Please! Don—" And she was shut up abruptly by his hand landing sharp on her ass, her original exclamation turning into another cry.

"You're already off to a bad start. You don't tell me no, ever. Wipe it from your vocabulary, understand?"

His voice came out incredibly husky at this, as if in real indignation, but this was only due to lust. There was a smile on his face as he spoke. Really, the more misbehaved she was, the more justified he was in harming her, giving him a good excuse to torment her. And so, he harassed her into giving only the satisfactory reply, a "Yes, master." Five whole minutes of torment ensued; Cioccolata fondled and verbally harassed the woman until she was able to give the response clearly, with no stuttering. Each time she had failed, he slammed his palm into her ass, then clawed his nails into the skin which supplied more than enough cushioning and insulation. He also counted each time she got it wrong, ensuring her that he would be taking notes later on and putting it all under her "file."

By the seventh attempt, she was successful.

"Good…" he hummed in triumph, continuing, "Keep up that good behavior, and perhaps you can be molded into the next Luna." He chuckled and remarked sarcastically.

It was a clever comparison; the auburn was highly, though understandably, emotional. It also didn't help that she was, until about a week ago, pregnant. Her hormones may still have been trying to readjust themselves. Her demeanor in general, even before captivity, reminded him that she may have been a weak, peace loving, dreamy type, also earning her the comparison. Painting a clear picture of the resulting energy exchange, it was like watching Luna and Mars attempting to cohabitate within the same house. With the lordship in this case being Mars, it was clearly a karmic reckoning to be had.

He looked over at Secco and asked if he made sure he got a good picture of her ass in the footage. Secco looked as though he was about to start drooling on the camera if he wasn't careful, and he nodded up and down with the camera in affirmation. Cioccolata on one hand himself, was about to be drooling. When it came to ass, legs or tits he was definitely the ass-man. This was the auburn's most redeeming quality, and only this in his mind made her catch worth it. He couldn't wait to drill his meat into her asshole.

He then looked to the cell bars and was pleased to see that Secco already had tied two different ropes to it. He was going to tie both of her wrists to it and have her positioned on her knees. With the height of them, her arms would be raised above her head, and the restriction would force her to stay up. She would truly be at his mercy, and she could hardly pull her wrists away without digging the rope into them, which he would surely tie tight enough to leave a mark as it was.

"Secco trade places with me, I'm tying her wrists to the bars." He ordered.

The auburn was resuming her sobs in the ground, her body convulsing to the severity of them. So Cioccolata then took a load of her mats into his hand and pulled her until she moved with him, wading her to the cell bars. As he dragged her across, he laughed and taunted her with, "I'll give you something to cry about now."

And she surely was. He took the end of her gown in his one hand and pulled at it until it tore at the seams. Rather effortlessly, it was gone, and the auburn was now stripped naked like the animal that he had every intention in making her. When this was done, he didn't revel in her newly exposed body, he proceeded as if he were on a mission. Quite the same quick paced manner as he exhibited as a physician.

After he had tied the auburn's wrists with the dangling sisal ropes, he was right to work, looking again through his "toys" which were reserved on the table for him which Secco had previously brought around. It should be said here that "toys" was such an ambiguous way to describe what these tools were which Cioccolata reveled in. After all, there were so many toys of his that could be described as tools within his Trade of Despair.

For example, he thought of all his surgical equipment as his toys. All his medical equipment, stocks of medicines, poisons and tranquilizers were his toys. He thought of all his special blades, knives, daggers and machetes as toys. But then he had his other division of toys! These included all toys which served a sexual purpose. Although, all his toys could serve that purpose, when you really think about it. However, these toys were quite obviously for this purpose.

Ropes, (of different variations) wires, cords, paddles, whips, (also of different variations) floggers, chains, gags, collars, leashes, straps, hooks, spreader bars, chokers, hoods, anal plugs, nipple clamps, vibrators, (which you'd be an idiot to think he used solely for clitoral stimulation) leather muzzles, canes, harnesses, bondage cuffs, a violet wand equipped with a wartenberg pinwheel. He also could use medical restraints as bondage. There were also all the branding electrodes…_those _he was looking forward to using most, as he had special plans for his slaves with them. All in all, it seemed to be endless when looking over his toys, especially since many of his other categories of toys could very well cross over into the sex related ones.

It should also be stated and made clear, that Cioccolata enlisted the use of some of these toys strictly for who he deemed his pet. He used much more extreme measures and tools for the sake of disciplining a slave. This worked in a well-defined hierarchy. There was a method to how he went about experimentation and discipline, and it all varied with the sexes. In a manner of speaking, he was much more likely to use harsher methods when dealing with men. This was due to his own biases regarding how he felt men should behave along with his eugenics. Women in the other hand, he employed methods which would be harsh only in the feminine perspective. He has found that while women do supposedly have a higher pain tolerance generally speaking, they reacted greatly to it. It could have been a social engineering that women behaved this way, or it really could have been biological. Regardless, due to this discovery, he has found emotional abuse and "scare tactics" to be the most satisfying when disciplining them, while men he has reserved especially for his most extreme curiosity.

With all that being said, it's obvious that Secco thus far, has been the only male subject which he deemed worthy. This made a lot of sense given his method, but it was especially shocking given how extreme it was. In truth, the only partner in crime he could ever have would be a male, because no woman would be able to endure the level of torture he placed on men. And indeed, you cannot judge a book by its cover; Secco was incredibly strong and "fit," as according to Cioccolata's Darwinian code. But that was the joy in this grand project of his! There was no way of knowing, until experimenting, just who would beckon Cioccolata to take under his wing. He wasn't searching for it, but rather, it was a spontaneous process that he would succumb to only if it heralds him to do so.

He took the leather flogger in hand first. He was horny as all fuck already, especially seeing the restrained slave before him. But thinking ahead, he wished to prolong the moment; it was time to get into the act so he would accomplish producing a great tape that he could look back on later.

Cioccolata was his own porn star, the films he directed and produced being of great variation in tactics but were always faithfully wrapped around a sadist's ultimate fantasy; his passion for inflicting suffering and humiliation was greater than the thrill of a junkie shooting up. Some films were strictly murder, some were rape and murder, and some started out as just murder, but evolved into necrophilia. Sometimes if the pussy or ass was just too good, he continued fucking them even after they were dead, or sometimes he fucked them to death itself.

Some especially exquisite films he had produced in his mid to late twenties. The former was very experimental and inquisitive in nature as his time at med school was coming to an end, and he was becoming a medical intern. In these, he put his medical and anatomical knowledge to the test. In reality, these romps were only placed to correct any foibles in experience he may have; he had already been cutting into things since his childhood, whether in school lab or outside of it. But now he had live human specimens, and thus, it was a great learning experience as well as a pleasure.

In this, Cioccolata reveled in a fantasy that plagued him since he was a pre-teen. He couldn't help but admire and glorify how beautiful the human body looks covered in its own blood. Many of these tapes at the time depicted him performing amputations, commonly of spots he knew that would bleed out, and testing out what arteries could also be severed that may or may not bleed out. More accurately, he wanted to see how long it would take before one bled out, which method would take the longest, and cause the most suffering.

Everything he learned was documented, and this hands-on experience made him a genius, a step ahead of any other equal position intern, and his hubris was often felt by others who swelled with the intimidation of it. The summation of a good many of these films which were responsible for the mastery of his skills involved him violating the body further sexually as this bleeding out took place. There's a reason he loves wearing white; it wasn't simply to be reminiscent of his doctor days.

His dexterity with the scalpel, any tools really, and precision in surgical incision could be compared to an artist and the steady hand-eye-coordination they required in painting on a canvas. And in nature, this was relatable in the spirit of expressing one's creative liberty. But in addition to this, he loved learning and retaining more and more information in a field that is always advancing. Although, the knowledge in which he was retaining were only with the intend of fulfilling his own latent pleasures than it was in the humanitarian effort.

This all made it truly arguable whether Cioccolata was born to become a surgeon. His temperament, style, skills and natural God-given abilities formed such a syzygy which marked him in the eyes of society from an early age. His attributes were not unlike the flow of spiritual energy one could feel when they bask in the dawning sun out of the eastern skies.

Before he was blacklisted, Cioccolata enjoyed a well-esteemed and earned reputation amongst his peers. The only thing that separated him from this choice in career, was the complete lack of empathy and care for the well-being of others. Perhaps if he hadn't gone through the early childhood experiences he had, his life could have been a lot different, and maybe even be completely fit for the path he chose career wise.

Back into reality, the auburn squirmed pathetically on her restraints, and her position revealed that she would experience no rest. With the height at which her wrists were bound to the bars, she was forced on her knees and unable sit down completely without feeling her elbows being tugged from their sockets. Her frightened anticipation was at the peak as she glared behind herself to Cioccolata who looked down upon her with the flogger in hand.

"That position becomes you, slave." He exhaled this breathy remark as he admired her hourglass, bottom heavy constitution. Her Mediterranean complexion, in his mind, pleaded for the feel of the leather straps of his flogger. He was all too happy to concede to its plea.

Stepping closer, Cioccolata ran the cool nubs of the strands of the flogger between his index and middle finger whilst staring down at her. But this lasted only a moment before her whimpers were audible throughout the dungeon. The blonde across the way was now alert and watching intently.

The auburn's whimpering was snubbed by Cioccolata. "It's time, slave, to be disciplined." He announced with sudden, booming ferocity. "How many strikes should you get?" He now spoke in such a calm manner, antagonistic to his previous statement, but it was quite obvious at this point that he had a hard on trapped in his pants. In fact, the bulge was quite prominently showing.

The question didn't appear to be received in earnest, and she appeared to be extremely hesitant to say anything, besides the usual whimpers that were becoming old fast.

With her lack of a response, Cioccolata turned the question to Secco instead. "You picked this bitch. How many times should I strike her?" He spoke now in a jovial tone.

"Uaaahh…" Then Secco held up five fingers with a goofy grin, the front teeth of his palate poking out from the gimp suit that wrapped most of his face.

"Five slashes!? You only want five slashes!? You little prick. That's so soft. Come on now, Secco!"

Secco shook his head in denial furiously. He began waving the camera and his free hand at the same time, still showing five fingers up, spreading them all out as if to convey some other message. "Waaah! Not five! Not five! Uhwwwaaah! More than five! Uh… Uhh…" He looked at the camera in his other hand in distress.

And with that Cioccolata recognized the problem. "I get it. You want ten slashes, don't you!?"

"Uhhhuhh! Uhhuh!" Secco was so happy his master was so adept at reading his mannerisms.

"Then ten slashes she will get. Get ready slave, you're getting ten slashes. Okay? ten slashes!" He directed this to the auburn with the utmost positivity beaming from his voice, as he patted Secco's head. His green eyes penetrated hers with triumph when she hesitantly looked back.

But it was at this time the auburn made another fatal error in training. Her eyes not only lingered on the man before her, but the long strands of the flogger, noticing the details on each one. She knew that the nubs would be anything but pleasant upon impact, and her fearful instincts got the best of her. With the whole of her body trembling uncontrollably, she pleaded, "P-please, I don't want that! Please…" The sobs wracked through her body, producing unpleasant guttural moans, and she hid her face in shame by turning it away to face the bars in front of her.

Cioccolata looked at this woman, who to be him was nothing more than an animal and responded to her cry in a calm but indifferent tone. "_I see_. So, you want _fifteen slashes_."

She gasped at his reply, but within the next moment, the sting of the flogger strands met her ass first, while the collision sent the many other strands in all directions, many hitting the back of her thighs and mid to lower back. That first strike sent her reeling, as much as could be allowed by her bounded wrists. The shock made her forehead hit the bars with enough force that knocked a second wave of pain into her head, all without mentioning the lingering strings stretching around her body, reaching places which the strands never met. All around, the auburn looked as though she was having a really bad day.

Cioccolata on the other hand was having a "Happy Day," as a matter of fact, he was living his best days. His toothy grin spread across his face automatically in response to her bodily reaction and scream. He stared down at her squirming body with the utmost satisfaction as he held the strands in the firm grip of his other hand. But even in all this building excitement, he wasted no time.

He started, "Four more slashes and I'll ask you a question. If you don't respond promptly, then that next strike will be with full force. Every five slashes I'll ask you again. Get ready, slave. You have four more slashes until I ask you!" The last words ended with a note of excitement in his tone, as if he were working in an amusement park and he was resuming a ride he had previously paused. This was exactly what he thought of it as.

The next slash shocked harder than the last, the pause only aiding to the swelling sensation in her buttocks. Her wrists pulled against the thick rope which was knotted around them and the rope answered back by chafing into her delicate wrists. She cried anew as the last shudders ran through her olive frame, and her body was forced to fall back into a lank posture, before they were slashed anew. At this point, the dungeon hall, and very likely the landing above it, resonated with the woman's screams.

Although Cioccolata tortured her mercilessly, this flogger was certainly not one to break the skin. The solid nubs on each strand however, would certainly bring about bruising later. While the four slashes probably were incredibly long ones for the auburn, it was incredibly fast for him. He paused and watched her body lean forward against its restraints, and her sense of shame in being fully nude seemed completely discarded. Rightfully, she had better things to worry about now. This clear dehumanizing effect on her made Cioccolata's dick even harder. He wouldn't be surprised if, by the time he was ready to fuck her, his dick had already ripped out of his pants.

In that moment, Secco was circling around the room. He normally did this during film time, but Cioccolata could see that there was some apparent agita in the way he did so. He must have been getting antsy too. Secco stood in front of the cell, capturing the front of the auburn's body, the sisal bondage already leaving her wrists red. Secco usually did his very best to remain still, sometimes he even bent his forearm in midair and forward while recording in order to concentrate on being as still as possible.

Simply recording everything wasn't enough for a man like Cioccolata. He hated fuzzy films, and the only other thing that pissed him off more was if the battery was already dead and Secco didn't realize it. But Secco wasn't staying steady like normal. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It was barely noticeable, but nothing escaped Cioccolata's awareness, and he was on his ass the moment he spotted it.

"_H-hey Secco!_" he exclaimed, almost desperately. A genuine look of distress was on Cioccolata's face, and he was already breaking a sweat. "Cut that shit out! _Stay still, dammit!"_

Secco stilled himself submissively in response. Cioccolata was relieved, but the relief soon turned to a raging contempt that he was instead going to displace onto the auburn. Hey, anything to make a better home-made movie.

Presently, her chest heaved, and her breath was ragged. Indeed, the hopelessness in her demeaner was apparent in body language enough, but it was felt in spirit as well. Already, after just five slashes against her amateur skin, which was likely to never even have felt soft BDSM play let alone this cruel natured sort—her body and soul were showing the right signs of being ensnared under his bailiwick.

Cioccolata had equal experience with death and sex, and his fascination and curiosity were fittingly revolved around both. He loved it for what it represented. If he must love death, then he should rightfully, love its polarity, life. And if he loves life, then he should also love the only process in which creates it for the majority of living things, specifically mammals.

Even so, his undeniable preference would be in slaughter. With this being said, he was quite experienced enough, through all of his superb observations of said torture, to know that it was all too common for his victims to appear as though, early on, they had lost all hope entirely. However, human psychology was truly a wonder. He had witnessed many people make frequent, and other times not so frequent cognitive shuffles which has made them go from hopeless to hopeful and back again. _Always back again._

In truth, these victims were the most satisfying, because their mental strength was apparent to Cioccolata, and the courage very well deserved a standing ovation within the heart of the matter. Nothing was more satisfying for him, to drive the periphery of his blade through their rapidly beating heart—to go from once having felt the vibration of their flapping heart, ringing out as desperately as a mouse strangled by a snake, to a sudden halt. No beat and no vibration. But the brief moment, the expression of their face, and more importantly, the look in their eyes, to once running from death to then embracing it. An orgasm to him could be compared to this. Are these both not a form of spiritual transcendence?

They were, he believed. But with one big difference. An orgasm is but a brief glimpse into the beginnings and the endings, the afterlife. While death, in contrast, is the moment where the doors open wide, and one sees for an instant exactly where they are going. The only question that plagued him was what exactly they saw. There was no end to his curiosity, and thus, as per his personal theories, Cioccolata was still evolving.

When he stared down upon the auburn, with the typical look of frenzied, perverted fascination that took hold of him as he experienced his deepest excitements, his private thoughts. An incredibly satisfying thought arose in his mind that she just may turn out to be redeemable, and molded into quite a nice cum-bucket, if nothing else. His emerald green eyes skimmed over her womanly shape now beat with red slashes and he knew he wouldn't be able to help how far he may go when he explodes. Since this flogger won't make her bleed, he will. _He will. _

With that, a harsh and husky tone replaced his earlier jovial one. He was quite serious, and Secco's shenanigans one minute ago didn't quite help it.

"Look back at me now, slave. Tell me who your master is."

She looked back to him, but with a down cast face, it hung as if on a noose. Indeed, she was hanging from her wrists, surrendering all weight to the iron prison she was bound to. Her hopeless eyes were in sync with the tone in her voice, as she whimpered, "_Master._._Cioccolata…_"

He bit his lip in response, briefly inhaling. Oh, that was going to be so good to hear on video.

"_Excellent._ That's what I like to hear. Now get ready, you're getting ten more." His face was twisted with sadistic delight on his last words, he just couldn't help it. And the look on terror revived on her pretty face made it so much better. Did Secco get that? He looked, and saw that Secco did indeed, come around to get that. _Good!_

Cioccolata resumed swinging the flogger, and the sounds were especially exquisite for him this time. Once he broke the bitch in it seemed, her screams became more agonized. She knew what to expect, he presumed, and since she knew how it felt, it made her that much more afraid. And this gave him so much more pleasure than the last five strikes—in fact, he slammed down on her naked ass and back harder, to the point that he grunted. He could see from behind the bars, Secco's blue eyes were wide open and staring into the auburn's screaming face. He had the camera close to the bars, and he remained stolid.

At the end of this round, Cioccolata's breathing had accelerated. He was almost drooling, he felt truly in his element, the only thing missing was blood.

The auburn's body was hanging limp yet again, but this time he could see her knees shaking, and her breathing was beginning to look like a rabbit's.

He repeated his question, his husky voice simmering with sadism and lust. Truly, some type of incubus was awake and on the loose tonight. She replied almost immediately this time, stuttering on his name as she choked it out of her sorry mouth.

"Perfect, good slave…_good, good, good!_ You are going to know exactly what I like by the time we're through with this." His voice came out like a purr, betraying the blood lust he was currently feeling. There were only five more slashes, yet this might have been ending for her, but it was only the beginning. This served as his warmup.

He rubbed his hands over the flogger, continuing, "I'm such a merciful master, aren't I, giving you these breaks, eh?" He broke out in a laugh, and wasting no time, he resumed the flogging, finishing off the last five strikes.

Mid way through, her body deliciously jumped to each strike with more intensity and by now, he had memorized each and every last welt on her creamy skin. He adored it; her skin genuinely looked better to him. And the thing he loved most, was knowing he had all this control over her entire being. This was deeper than simply ravaging her, though of course, he couldn't wait to do that next.

On the midway strike—the third one, he paused only briefly, wanting to savor his final moments, he raised his voice to a high pitch, filling the cell with his masculine energy and shouting, _"three!"_

The auburn screamed with heightened intensity in response to the stronger slash. Her fists balled up more than they ever had, and her nails dung into her palms. If they broke the skin, it would have gone unnoticed by her.

"_Two!" _Cioccolata's voice boomed, and with precision, all straps of the flogger pinned her ass, and her torso slammed into the cell before her, as her balance was now severely tested. Her face slammed straight into one of the bars, the bridge of her nose taking the entire impact.

He noticed, but it only served to encourage, he gave no halt, and turned on his heel as if he were ready to throw Secco a cube, delivering the final blow with _**"One!"**_

In finality, her body was thrown once more into the bars, and her face met the same unlucky fate, her nose once again taking the brunt of it.

"Owwwaaauuhh…" Secco's eyes widened with fascination as he noted her now crooked nose, with blood running down both nostrils. Her eyes were closed, and she hung there as if she were dead already. Her mind was broken.

Cioccolata wasn't aware of it just yet. His grip around the flogger was tight with excitement, and after chuckling to himself, he spoke to the slave once more.

"_Heh_." His trademark grin, with full baring teeth were revealed. "So, who am I, eh? What do you refer to me as, bitch?"

It was just barely audible, but with strained breath, she replied, "_Master Cioccolata…_" Her mouth hung agape after she spoke, as if two simple words took enough of her energy. But the remarkable thing was that she responded this time without stuttering, seemingly without fear, completely void and hopeless.

Cioccolata's eyes opened wide and he instantaneously made a long, exaggerated inhale through his teeth as he bit down on his lip. This was a common mannerism of his when he was in the most pleasantly surprised delight.

He dropped the flogger and broke out in applause, exclaiming numerous good's and clapping his hands like he was attending the Italian Oscars.

Then he turned his enthusiasm to Secco. "Did you get all that, Secco!?"

Secco looked like he had a boner, yet the real fun had not even started. But Secco also had a more serious gleam in his eyes Cioccolata noticed right away. He nodded his head vigorously to imply that he did indeed capture everything on film, but his nod was rushed as he began to point instead at her face. Cioccolata had a feeling he knew what happened; he got carried away far too often. He gave Secco the signal to cut the tape.

He nonchalantly stepped forward and knelt down so he was leveled with the auburn, and Secco as well, who had also been kneeling in the locust fashion as he typically did. Cioccolata took her chin and turned her face to his. The auburn had a small nose, but it was somewhat bulbous at the nostrils. Now, her nose was noticeably crooked, and blood ran down from both nostrils to her full, fleshy lips. Cioccolata examined it only a bit further, feeling her nose from where the bone meets cartilage down. She recoiled only slightly—likely due to how disconcerted she was after the flogging—and he proceeded to close her nostrils with his thumb and forefinger for the next couple of minutes.

"She's fine," he told Secco, and continuing, "It's just a slight nasal fracture. I'll fix it later, maybe tomorrow. If not, I will the day after. She'll live either way. So calm down." He spat the last to him with the same look of apathy on his face that he saw the wound with.

Secco's eyes relaxed in response and his boner was revived. Thank goodness.

Cioccolata was more concerned that this was taking away from his playtime, having to wait five minutes before he could gloss over some of the footage Secco had recorded.

When the time was up, he released her nose and chin, having shown her the most warmth he would ever show her in this session. She looked just barely out of it, and he was going to change that very soon, to his pleasure. For now, he let her be, while he focused on the camera Secco handed him by his order.

And it was no surprise, Cioccolata's hard-on came resurrected as well as he glossed through sections of the tape. He was so aroused by it, he had to fight himself from holding the screen portion too close to his eyes. He had to admit, as he most often did to himself, that he was such an exquisite sight to behold of a man. In fact, in his mind, he was the most gorgeous man to be found in Italy. No other man he had seen interning, surgeons, or other doctors in the hospital which he worked were neither taller nor more handsome than he. And much fewer had his toned and cut body. To top it all off, his high IQ left their room temperature IQs in the dust. But really, he was probably just gloating; minimizing their level of intelligence in comparison to his own.

Cioccolata adored the angle in which Secco captured the whipping. He was able to see, as clear as day, the auburn's expressions upon each strike, the shape of her sweet mouth at each scream, and the sways of her breast as her body submitted to the flogs. He almost salivated at the final two lashes, witnessing full well the collision her nose took against the cell bars. To top it all off, the thrill he could see on his face in the tape made him cheese uncontrollably. He could hardly wait to watch this all, but now, it was time to add more to it.

He chuckled to himself yet again, commending himself mentally with derogatory delight on his performance. His eyes trailed over his half-way broken in slave's body, committing to memory just how exquisite—irresistible she looked hanging limb and battered. It all only led to a warm and full rush in his genitals, he knew he had to smash his organ in her soon. After handing the camera back to Secco, he smacked his palms against his knees with a start, lifting himself back up, announcing, "Round two!"

.


	4. Chapter 4

_"My leathers fit tight around me,_

_My whip is always beside me._

_You want the same thing every day,_

_I'll teach you love a different way._

_You'll learn to love me and my sweet pain,_

_My love will drive you insane!" ~Sweet Pain, KISS_

* * *

_**.**_

_**Capitolo IV:**_

_-Dallo schiavo al padrone: prima fase-_

Papà Mold fumbled around on the table which Secco wheeled in about thirty minutes earlier. He returned the flogger swiftly but carefully, then sifted through his toys. He had a few things in mind. Usually his first session he went the hardest, administering any method he could in order to tame the subject. As such, his procedures went very much the opposite of the typical methods doms would use to warm up their subs. The only time he lessened the intensity is if, in a rare occasion, he became especially fond of his subject. The only time this happened was with Secco. Otherwise, he was a true amusement park dom. His rides never ended; screaming, crying, pleading—nothing was going to stop this maniac.

Cioccolata's sexual fantasies went hand in hand with his philosophies, and his greatest pleasure in life which was to be the one directly in control of and witnessing another person's suffering. It was true, not all Cioccolata's exploits therefore were sexual. They didn't need to be…more often than not, they weren't.

Nature calls for all men however; and so, he had to scratch that itch every once in a while at least. His recent murders from the job sated his blood lust thus far, and in this order, he was able to fulfill his sexual urges. That is to say, once his primary urge to slaughter was satiated, his sex drive was next, and this could never be done the other way around.

Speaking of which, that final thought brought back an interesting memory for him back in his BDSM epoch. It happened when he was fucking one of his favorite subs, when something came over him. He began biting into her neck, much more than a nibble and digging his nails into her skin until he drew blood, all the while pounding into her mercilessly. Back then he wondered if he had just gotten so into it that he had lost himself to some kind of animalistic, primal urges—which wasn't unlike his sexual approach.

However, now he had figured out that it was due to him repressing his blood lust for too long. These days, he never lost it to that point from sex. He did think it would be nice to fuck a woman to death again…He only made two snuff film of that nature specifically. He had better things to think about right now though, so he stayed in the moment.

Now it was really time to break this bitch. He already set aside a hood, muzzle, ankle cuffs, and a paddle. He also had lube in case he really couldn't get inside. But since this was a first training session, he was going to abstain as much as possible from using it. And if he had to, he'd beat her ass again, except he wouldn't be amused to do so.

He looked over at the auburn, still paralyzed by her restraints. Her body was jerking slightly, and he realized she must have been crying. He smiled to himself, a proud dacryphile he was, as he finished up his preparations. He glanced again over her body, now offering a prelude to the welts and bruises that would line her curves.

Secco was circling her fat ass like a wild animal, he even looked like he was holding back from pouncing. _This_ is what happens when he doesn't have the camera in hand to preoccupy him.

"Hey, Secco. Resume the tape now." He directed to him gruffly.

Secco looked like he was caught with his hands in the cookie jar, and his brows furrowed in defiance.

Cioccolata glared at him ready for a stare down. Just like a dance between beasts in nature, one's dominance had to win over the other. Cioccolata was always the winner, effortlessly. He had castrated Secco himself when he was his patient. Doing so naturally made Secco compromised in testosterone production, but to Cioccolata's surprise, it didn't do much to calm down his erratic behavior in the long run. That is, it only seemed to work initially. This was one major factor in making Secco an extremely curious subject to him.

Secco, after only a moment of meeting his gaze put his head down in defeat, grunting with disappointment. He was once again, holding the camera and getting it ready.

Secco was an incredibly good boy as of late, and Cioccolata was feeling benevolent tonight. So, he'd let him have a treat, especially since his act of defiance was so short lived, and still—it impressed him and stirred his curiosity. Perhaps Secco was evolving in some way despite his mutilation.

"You may touch her. But don't put your dick in her yet. You can use your fingers." He announced, while looking down at his own wood.

Secco's eyes were wide in response, he looked the way he normally does on Christmas morning. He squirmed around in a haste directly behind the auburn, and got to work right away, spreading her thick ass cheeks apart. Cioccolata picked up the camera instead and recorded it.

"You got two minutes before I take over." And with this, Secco looked to be in even more of a frenzy.

The auburn was already recoiling from the invasion and likely the pain of Secco's callused hands prodding, clasping at her welts. Her ass was likely stinging to the touch. And Cioccolata was loving it all. He couldn't wait to see his dick between those chunky pussy lips, and he hoped sincerely that the grinding and slapping of his body into hers was comparable to rubbing her welted skin against sandpaper. Oh, how he was going to sand that ass inside and out. He chuckled to his own mental joke.

Once Secco's fingers spread her labia, and he began thrusting his fingers inside, the auburn was screeching anew, trying with feeble and futile effort to pull away from him. Cioccolata already had his pants unzipped with his dick out, jerking himself slowly with his free hand. Something about holding the camera to his eye made the experience that much more satisfying to watch.

Not only was he an exhibitionist, but he was a sexual and psychotic voyeur. His first fetish, before anything else as a young boy, was to watch others have sex. It wasn't until much later that he was able to directly engage, and by then, he already knew exactly what he liked. But this was also before he had discovered snuff films online. Since then, it was love at first sight; he was complete—he had everything he was missing. And since then, it became one of his life missions to record as many as he could.

His perversions started innocently, you could say, with simply sneakily trying to watch others engaged in intercourse. But it was clear to him later on that he was attracted to filming in and of itself. To him, he was just producing art.

He began his sexual career as an exhibitionist in the BDSM scene. He tried everything until he figured out what he preferred. It didn't take long, but it was ultimately his engaging in blood play which triggered him to begin looking up snuff films. When he was a boy, he dissected insects and mammals, anything he could, thanks to his curiosity. He knew he enjoyed it, but he didn't realize how much more thrilling it would be to do so to a person.

Cioccolata was a man whose sense of self was largely influenced by empirical evidence as well as kinesthetic learning. As such, he recognized there to be several key factors that played a part into his spiritual evolution. However, three experiences changed the course of his life forever.

The first was…personal. The second, of course, was when he volunteered at the nursing home. But it was his involvement with a rough guy around his block, the one who ultimately introduced him to BDSM, that also led to this influence in his life course.

In fact, it seemed like this guy was the first domino before the next two major events for Cioccolata.

* * *

_._

_Rome, Italy—June 1980_

Cioccolata was only thirteen when he met this man, a then nineteen-year-old delinquent. When Cioccolata first saw the guy, he was posted against a fence smoking a blunt publicly, as was pretty common in the late '70s-early '80s during his childhood. The neighborhood in which Cioccolata found himself strolling in was the epitome of the slums. And as was the style in Roma, the houses were closely compacted into rowhomes, much of the streets were cramped. It was a sweltering late June day, but that didn't stop all the junkies from shooting up, and their empty syringes were easily distinguishable through the cobble.

At the time, Cioccolata had already passed several on the steps, and sometimes on the ground, either shamelessly doing so in public, or sitting with their heads held back, catching flies. Sometimes they even fell off the steps they laid perched and didn't wake up for God knows how long. This section in particular seemed like an area befitting the dead, and the only ones who appeared to have any life in them looked shady; strolling inconspicuously between dreary alleyways.

It didn't stand to reason why Cioccolata would be bothered to walk through an impoverished section of Roma rather than the lavish fruit gardens of his own home estate—now, during his school break, more in their glory than ever.

Unsurprisingly indeed, Cioccolata came from money. It was his father who was the sore holder of it all. He was a successful businessman throughout the country, well known for his dynamism—the details of which, to be sure, were never discussed at home. It was well known that his inheritances from his fathers and forefathers came largely from investment and the purchasing of favorable stocks. He was a shrewd looking, but otherwise handsome Italian man, hailing from the Lazio region himself. To add to his appeal, he was all limousines, tailor made corduroy suits and ascots over casually buttoned blouses.

The estate for which was passed down to him through lineage, was immense. It was located on the outskirts of Roma, buried in well-kept foliage, not far from a lake just outside the boundaries of the land owned by him. Its location was beneficial to his father as far as his business travels, having access to the airport and major highways. Despite how much work his piece of land took, he valued his privacy more, so he only had about twenty-six hands hired distributed between maid work, farming, and gardeners. The workers however, in making up for this, were well paid.

It was during Cioccolata's very early childhood that his father spotted his intelligence, but it was not something that was met with genuine interest. He rather saw it as a way to make capital. Indeed, the man that called himself his father actually had not much love for his son. He rather had a contempt for the child, as he was prone to delusions regarding his wife's fidelity.

Put simply, Cioccolata's eyes were an oddity. His father had light brown eyes, while his wife had dark pearls for them. One of the things he was looking forward to most, upon the impregnation of his wife, was not only the hope for having a son, but that he would look just like him.

But Cioccolata had not one bit of resemblance to him. He only bore some resemblance to his mother, accounting for his thick, somewhat kinky dark hair. Many factors could have been the reason for this, it's true enough that a child can come out with differing eyes from their parents, pulling from the earlier blood of their genealogy. However, it was not only the simple mindedness of his father which contributed to his skepticism of his alleged seed, but the fact that no "bond" could be felt between them. He and his son were like strangers, the feeling was mutual; a pressure between them that only further drew them apart as in twin magnets.

This comes back to the reason why his father felt the compulsion to rush his son through education. Not only was he the only heir to his fortune, but he needed to get rid of his son's presence. For many reasons, it was more a power trip than anything else; sending Cioccolata to an all-boys Roman-Catholic boarding school was the best way to get back at his wife.

Like most mothers, Cioccolata's loved him unconditionally and—while she did not intervene in the beatings he took from his father—she did verbally take up for him relentlessly during their arguments. With that being said, the relationship between him and his mother as well, was far from perfect. In fact, it was rather complicated, as Cioccolata was insecurely attached to her. Even so, _even_ in his adulthood, Cioccolata recognized that no woman treated him as his mother did—or so he thought.

The young Cioccolata was exceptionally close with his mother, but that was before he was sent away. Even as he tried to be with his mother again, they seemed to be under surveillance within their own homes. That is to say, somehow, his father always sniffed it, and he assayed to break up their company. Not only that, but he exacted punishment upon both parties for doing so. It was not uncommon that Cioccolata stumbled upon or heard his father beating his mother, quite living up the woman beater stereotype of Italian men—though not nearly as well as Cioccolata later would.

Given this sliver of insight on his homelife, it made at least some sense why he would be seeking to be away from the estate. However, this still didn't quite cast the explanation. He was now, after all, coming back for his summer break. Sure, he didn't have much to look forward to at home, but there was still an entire estate…though it was an estate which felt more like a prison.

Cioccolata was on the rough side, due to his environment. His home life was nothing that could be expected of an elite. Where one would expect to find opulence, there was only pain. And where most would expect a bright future and hopeful outcomes, there was only despair.

Cioccolata began his early life being a stain in his father's sight. He seemed to be a brooding child; artistic along with animated expression. When he was not reading, he was drawing. When he was not drawing, he was often engaged in make believe play, calling upon imaginary friends. He often treated the games as if they were a performance, making himself into quite a miniature actor, thrilled by the feeling of being watched and recorded. These artistic and theatrical leanings were already not in favor by his father, who was only concerned with developing his child in the direction of lira.

If that weren't bad enough, Cioccolata also made himself stand out as a troublemaker. He was a curious child, too much for his own good. He often roamed the estate, intermingling with the workers, infringing upon their duties with questions, as well as general mischief. He was constantly found trying to break things apart, and piece them back together in a meticulous manner that it seemed disturbing. It could have however been a simply innocent pursuit, as his curiosity drove him to want to understand _everything _around him. Needless to say however, that curiosity of his started to have very bad consequences when it came to him spying, and later, attempting to record his parent's sexual activity.

And here, now, in the summer of 1980, was Cioccolata's first time coming to Roma on his own. He was born here, in one of the most well-known hospitals at that. But he was never given the chance to leave the borough of his estate and venture out. If he was not subjected there, it was at the boarding school, in the dorms. Given his age at this point, and his adapted sneakiness, he was hoping to go on an escapade of "field study." It was his swelling curiosity which drove him to this…not only did he want to see the larger world, but he wanted to observe its occupants. In addition, he wanted to see the city for which he was actually born; a blood tie.

And so, all of the material he was now exposing himself to fed his appetite for knowledge and experience. Seeing it all thrilled him, along with the rush for knowing all the trouble he'd be in if he were found out. Even so, he gathered his research enthusiastically, he was already in the habit of writing and taking notes from his education at the boarding school, which packed heavy in science. As expected, the school accepted many of the most promising students, and it cost a pretty coin.

Cioccolata regarded the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, and otherwise undesirables he encountered as subjects. He saw them as something less than human, and more akin to test mice. But even this didn't quite get the point across. It was more like he viewed them as samples in a slide case. They were specimens which he felt he had every right to exploit and observe at his discretion, whenever he wanted. Indeed, at this point in time, the accumulation of his life experiences, those named and unnamed—including a most recent one upon his return from the boarding school—produced some type of imbalance in the boy's brain.

Maybe there was always something biological to be said of the child's psychology, but for what it was worth, the exogenous factors contributed to quite a bulk, only feeding the chemical disposition of the child.

All of this now was about six to seven months before Cioccolata began his volunteer work with the elderly. Even so, and despite the workload he had with school, he wanted to waste no time on his breaks. It always came across that his work ethic in one way or another was strong. It was a big reason why he wasted no time in coming to the city. He was looking for anyone, anything to catch his eye, and upon further inspection, as the day drew on, he found just that.

This man he had encountered then, not only stood out to him because of the blunt he was smoking, but because of his style in question. He wore a combination of leather and corduroy. A choker lined his neck, combat boots that climbed just above his knee with a bit of a heel to them—if he had to guess, the heels looked to be about four to five inches. He had shoulder length, natural jet-black hair parted down the middle. He wore a camo green tank top with dark chest hair protruding from it, but this fact was distracted by the gothic-romantic styled black cross that rested upon his collar. The tank top was tucked into his off-white corduroy pants, which themselves, were tucked into the combats. His protruding masculine chest, along with the tight fit of his clothes revealed that he was slightly built.

The man was, in all honestly, quite a nice sight to see. He stood upon the gate looking out with something of a sneer on his lips. He was tall, and not only was his hair long, as mentioned, but it was feather combed with appealing volume. His bangs fluffed over his temples until they merged with the rest of his hair. But one of the most striking things about him, besides his manner of dress, was the fact that his face was painted white like a canvas.

Another thing stood out in regard to his face. He wore dark heavy eyeshadow, climbing just below his defined eyebrows. The lining of his were all black, while much of the shadow itself was a dark purple. Not only were they purple, but so was his lips, of the same shade at that. The points of his dark eye liner climbed straight toward his nasal, and out distally in Greek fashion. His style attracted Cioccolata's attention, it was the loudest way of dressing he had ever seen before. Transfixed wasn't the word. He stopped and stared at the glorious man, who looked over the streets before himself with an unfazed look in his deep set rusty brown eyes. He seemed to stand out as something of a type of Roman street God; a pillar for the plethora of plebeians.

With this intriguing symbolism in mind, Cioccolata started conversation with him, perhaps clumsily, given his age, by asking for some of his blunt.

"H-hey, what is that there you're smoking? Let me have some of that!" He saw cigars before from his father, but they certainly didn't smell the way this did. In his defense however, he was otherwise quite sheltered.

He who Cioccolata addressed sure came across as a nasty guy.

Sticking his nose up to Cioccolata he barked, "Hell no! Keep that shit moving, boy!" waving his smoking hand dismissively.

Cioccolata was quite shocked, so he just stared at him with a stone look, unwavering.

This man he had approached was, in reality, a _saldato _within the mafia family seated in Roma within that time period. This was about six years before the founding of Passione, and many of the members of this particular gang were absorbed within Passione's ranks after '86. This man, like all _saldato_, held an oath of silence. While he never directly revealed his involvement with the mafia, it was easily understood by many, especially those within his turf. Cioccolata at this time, ironically, knew nothing about such things. His act of even addressing him inappropriately was a hint of disrespect.

The young gangster's eyes lurked down the boy's school uniform, noticing his backpack first, and then taking in the rest. For Cioccolata, putting his uniform on became a force of habit as it was, having worn it not only all of his academic years, but he often never bothered to take it off even when he was done class.

What was his uniform, the spring alteration of it, was a white button up blouse with the school emblem at the boarder of the short sleeves. For his bottoms was navy blue khaki suspendered shorts leaving much of his thighs bare. Traveling along inferiorly from here, he wore brown buckled loafers with long white socks reaching just below the knee. His dark green hair, during this time period, was mid-neck length, and his long locks were tucked behind his ears.

Having made a mental note of the fact that he was clearly a secondary school aged student, the gangster pointed it out, trying to further belittling him.

"Who the _fuck _do you think you are walking around these parts as if you own it, _eh?_ Walking around with that punk ass uniform on, with those _bitch ass_ shorts of yours. I'll come over there and shove my foot up your little ass, boy!" He roared.

Cioccolata had the best grades in his class, something he was proud of, but he was sure, to a guy like him, it meant nothing—despite how utterly charming he looked. For one of these city dwellers that the gangster addressing him was—in the heart of the slums—it might even be frowned upon.

So he stood there, not really knowing what to say in defense of himself, but otherwise remaining unmoved by the man's show of machoism. It wasn't too much different than the type of treatment he received from his father.

The man jumped off the fence toward him in response. Looking back, he did that to try to scare him away. But Cioccolata didn't move still, or flinch. Once he was directly in front of Cioccolata, who was a foot shorter than him, he stared down at him menacingly. Seeing his face closer, he could see that the man's eyes were incredibly blood-shot.

After sizing him up for about fifteen seconds, he blew a smoke cloud down on him, then slapped his arm saying, "Alright, come on. I like you."

It was a very polar response, but the gangster was seemingly impressed by the boy's guts to have stood so still yet maintain solid eye contact.

Cioccolata, for about the next two months, hung out with this man—Olivio Gallo.

In that same day, Olivio told him that he worked for an organization, and he had his own turf where his job was to sell drugs, which was what he was sitting around upon the fence for at the time. Cioccolata typically looked down on this type of behavior, for impersonal reasons—but he never mentioned it. There was something about Olivio that he liked, mainly his style, which was the initial attraction. And maybe because Olivio was trash, he didn't seem to judge Cioccolata when he found out that he liked to dissect insects and animals. Instead, he laughed about it.

Olivio confided to Cioccolata that he wanted him to join his organization, but he had to wait until he was at least fifteen. At the time, Cioccolata had no interest in such a thing, not to mention he was not told what exactly he was referring to. Olivio, on those couple of occasions of bringing up his "organization," gave Cioccolata a prolonged stare, as if fully try to gauge his reaction to hearing it. His looks prompted Cioccolata to question more of the details of his work, but Olivio would not budge on it, sometimes even ignoring him.

The boy learned to leave it be, although he was not especially interested in the future offer to begin with. Moreover, when Cioccolata's summer break was over, he would be heading back to the boarding school. And so, he hung out with Olivio ultimately, because he was curious about him, not because he admired him. It was really, in nature, an experiment for his own spiritual growth, while treating Olivio, at least in his own mind, as another test subject.

Cioccolata's manipulative nature at this time was effortless. He had a way of exuding upon others grace, charm and beauty which was becoming increasingly more amplified as he aged. It was true that Cioccolata had been using his skills of persuasion since early childhood with his mother…and through her he learned how to get his way, every time. In this same way, he was able to play Olivio like he was his puppet master. A visibly hard as nails guy like Olivio, who was even six years older than young Cioccolata, fell into trusting him completely. Even so, the exchange between them wasn't completely one sided.

More and more, Olivio himself began to influence Cioccolata into some of his ways, including Cioccolata's taste in clothing and music. They had a lot of good times and got into a lot of trouble, as was typical of young boys or teenagers, especially in the rougher areas. Their activities were often of the delinquent and antisocial nature—setting fires, destroying property and entering private properties. It was a positive experience for Cioccolata, who was finally able to freely exercise a lot of the aggressive energy built up within him; an aura that seemed to envelop him for longer than he could remember. Even given all the trouble they had gotten themselves into, there were many times they simply sat around smoking and listening to music in Olivio's gold '55 Chevy, which he greatly prized.

It was on these warm summer nights, that Cioccolata and Olivio had long, intimate chats that often spread into the midnight. With the advantage of Olivio being a driver, he was able to drop Cioccolata off nearby his estate without realizing the grandness of the property, just as Cioccolata preferred it. With how dark and well secluded the estate was, it was easy to miss. The only thing Olivio knew, was that his family had money, but he did not know the extent.

On these nights before he would drive Cioccolata home, Olivio often had his music playing from the car's radio. He'd often just jam out with the windows open, with the summer air caressing each of their cheeks. Olivio had over a dozen cassettes of the up and coming music of their time—punk rock, post-punk, and classic rock n roll. Of these were those of which who had specifically nailed the template for the coming wave of glam metal, hard rock and heavy metal.

In fact, Olivio's favorite band was "KISS." Admittedly, it played a huge impact on his style of dress, namely the makeup. However, his collective music taste made up for the rest of his style. He was a creature entirely bathed in music, fashion and the newest trends, often looking to get any news on Hollywood.

He wasted no time educating the young Cioccolata about such bands and their lifestyles. This, during the time period, was _especially _interesting for Cioccolata, who was just going through puberty. In addition, he was also aware of Cioccolata's voyeur fetish, and in response, showed him numerous pornographies. The bondage porn in particular caught Cioccolata's interest, and when he inquired more about it, it seemed to have the effect of invigorating Olivio's fascination with Cioccolata.

He then confided in him about the scene he was into. This began a new chain of events…

One thing that should be noted before all this is that, Cioccolata, despite being only about thirteen and a half, had a build going for him—quite remarkably given the age! Although, he was still shorter than Olivio, but now, only by about nine inches. And so, he was just beginning to mingle in the BDSM scene Olivio had introduced him into. But this didn't just happen spontaneously, rather, Cioccolata was "initiated" into it.

It happened in Olivio's car one night. It seemed to be a night not unlike any other, with Olivio going through his cassettes deciding which he'd play first. And not unlike many nights, he was trying to decide between one of several KISS albums; he had every major one they had produced since they formed! The self-titled album KISS, Hotter than Hell, Dressed to Kill, Rock and Roll Over, Destroyer, Love Gun, as well as one of their newest, Dynasty.

"I'll tell you one thing, I had to _really_ search hard for this one!" He pointed to the Dynasty cassette; an admirable photograph of the band member's faces all etched in each corner; makeup on fleek.

Cioccolata was increasingly curious about the band, after all that he had been told, so he always listened to his ranting about them with genuine interest. Not only that, but Cioccolata found himself attracted to the album art of "Love Gun." All the band members looking to be stepping foot into a chamber of at least twelve women on the floor, staring at them. Even now, he could see the cassette cover peeking from Olivio's collection.

Looking at it, it gave him a flood of hope for the future. Would that ever be _him?_ Could he ever own a harem? Good God, how he wished it he _could_, how he wished he _would._

Olivio continued talking. "I can't decide which is my favorite though, I'm stuck between Destroyer and Love Gun. But…_ah…_"

He pulled some strands of his long black hair between his pointer and middle finger, staring at its edges. His front teeth hung between his lips as he scrutinized the keratin. Maybe he was looking for split ends. He then dropped it, blowing out of a puff of air directed at the bangs coming down into his eyes from his erratic searching through the glove compartment.

He continued then, "Dynasty is _rad_, all the same." He smirked then, with full black lips, over at Cioccolata, who was quietly sitting in the front seat beside him.

"You know what, actually? I heard they just released a new album a little over a month ago, Unmasked. I don't think it's here yet though. But you right on _bet_ that I _will_ have it when it does! And when I do, you'll know it, because I'm not going to be running the streets that day…" He picked up his half-finished blunt then, taking a deep hit to his lips. It was so dark now, the dark brown rolled up paper to the blunt was barely visible between his fingers, and its ember upon inhalation only shed but some light upon his digits.

Olivio continued where he left off, but his voice strained in rasp, his lungs still trying to accommodate and diffuse more oxygen after the hard hit of pot; "'Cause I'm gonna stay home that day _annnnd_…rock out _alllll _night!~ And party eve-ry day!~" he exclaimed with a laugh, then continued, "Yeah, and I've got to find that album too before their Unmasked tour!"

He was referring to their concert that he had already bugged Cioccolata to go with him to, in the next couple of months. The best part for Olivio, was that it was going to take place right in Roma. It was because of this impending concert in the first place—his first chance to see the band live—that he was especially so hyped up regarding them as of late.

Cioccolata snorted through his own blunt in response to his friend's excitement, shaking his head. The trauma in his life and burden of premature responsibility made him seem awfully mature for a thirteen-year-old. He didn't know it, but Olivio quite liked that quality about him. He often felt like they were really the same age. After only just a bit of silence between them, as Olivio then looked again at his cassettes, he looked back at him, until Cioccolata noticed his glaring with one raised, dark brow.

"Hm? What are you looking at?" He asked sternly, which came off more as a demand than a question.

"Pick one." He titled his head to his cassettes.

Cioccolata was in no mood to pick, however. His own blunt left him higher than a kite. In reality, he was a full time amateur to smoking, but he wore his inexperience like a pro, even back when Olivio gave him his first pass a couple weeks ago. With that all said, his head quite literally felt detached from his body, and his eyes were glazed and low set, staring at the flamboyant men's silhouettes on the cassette tapes.

Olivio erupted in laughter. "Man, look at you! You're stoned!" He continued, grabbing the first, self-titled KISS album. "Guess I'm playing this one."

Cioccolata finally summoned his mind back to his body and exclaimed: "No! _Hell no_ do I want to hear you singing Strutter again!"

His friend's lips leaned into a crooked smirk, a characteristic trademark feature of his. It complimented his face paint perfectly, really. Typically, Olivio wore dark purple lipstick with the same shade of purple eyeshadow, but sometimes the eyeshadow was blue. When it was, he wore black lipstick with it, like tonight. He opened his mouth, and then came, "_Strutter!_" he teased.

Cioccolata scoffed, fumes of exhaled smoke shot through the vehicle, "You asshole."

But Olivio was just laughing again, hardly paying it any mind. This was typically how they joked around. He continued on with the games. "_Welllll_…if you don't make up your mind, I'm putting it on." He was already slowly pulling the cassette tape out just then, as he spoke.

"Oh no, you don't." Cioccolata stated firmly.

"Maybe…! ~ Baby…! ~" He began playfully singing again.

Cioccolata simply shot him a look, but then simply stated, "Destroyer."

Olivio watched him with a gleam in his eye upon deciding; he seemed to regard Cioccolata then and there as his protégé, and he had just answered favorably.

Cioccolata sneered, "Come on, put it in already then. What are you looking at, _eh?_"

Olivio flipped his long hair in a flamboyant manner, then focusing back on the cassette tapes, obeying him with a smug look on his whitened face.

"_Oh, _you've got good taste. It seems I taught you well, _little Cioccolata." _He practically hissed out his words, and soon enough, "Detroit Rock City" was playing from his Chevy's sound system.

The music was blaring, and it bothered neither of them, Olivio was wildly gesticulating while Cioccolata sat back simply tapping his foot to the drums and electric guitars; their ages looking rather reversed.

Cioccolata simply stared at him blankly, he was a boy of few words on a regular basis, let alone when he was stoned and slightly sloshed. However, he wasn't as much so as Olivio was tonight, and it was clear in how chatty he especially was. In fact, Olivio seemed a lot looser and fun loving when he was high or drinking. The lyrics of the song, "first I drink, then I smoke!" seemed to very much apply to Olivio. To be expected, it was a typical effect of substances. Given that much, Cioccolata thought nothing of it initially.

Given how much they both enjoyed the first track of the album, the conversation between them previously had taken a halt. However, by the time the next song came on, they resumed talking again, only for Olivio to cut off into his singing. Although it was quite annoying for Cioccolata, the case could be made for Olivio's natural vocal talent. Even so, enough was enough.

"I'm the _king! _I'm the _king!_ I'm the _king!_ I'm the _king! ~" _His voice rang out in aggressive pitches, climbing higher at each climax.

Cioccolata blew smoke out at him at that point, interrupting the make-believe musician; he was even in the middle of mimicking playing guitar.

He stated, "You wish. _I'm _the king."

Olivio looked deeply insulted. He retorted with, "Pffft!" He looked Cioccolata square in the eyes, then pressed his own finger into the side of his head, rolling his eyes, clearly gesturing that Cioccolata was crazy to imply something like that.

When his point was made, he eased in closer to him, until Cioccolata could smell the alcohol on his breath. He pressed his pointer into his chest, then spoke low, "A little virgin like you? _King?" _

Cioccolata's heart dropped on the spot…he was pissed like nothing else.

"I'm not a virgin." Cioccolata spat.

"Bullshit. I know you are. Why else would you be trying to sneak filming your parents? That's some real kid shit. You're still just a little boy," He mocked with a smirk.

Cioccolata's face grew hot, but luckily for his olive tan complexion, Olivio shouldn't have noticed it. He always threw low blows like this. One of these days, he was gonna get punched.

Lucky for him, the onset of the next song, his personal favorite at that, saved him from an obligatory response—which would have likely been a passive-aggressive one.

It was a favorite of Olivio's too, he flew back fully into his seat at the slow buildup of the guitar, abandoning his taunt on Cioccolata. Soon enough, Cioccolata relaxed back into his high, but the slight was unforgotten.

"God of Thunder" was a song of high masculine energy, and in due time, Cioccolata was tuning in singing with Olivio, which seemed to be quite a contradiction of his intolerant attitude to Olivio's solo performances. There seemed to be a stare off going on between them during the song, and at the conclusion, Cioccolata proclaimed with a sneer, "Okay, you can be king. That's fine. But I'm the God of Thunder."

Olivio erupted in mad laughter. "_Are you kidding me?!_" He flapped his hands as if to shake off the remark. "That was worse than your last claim! Haha!" At this point in time, he had already finished his blunt, and so did Cioccolata, and so he spoke freely. "You're hysterical, really. I'm not even going to take it seriously…" he concluded with more impassioned laughter.

Cioccolata just glared at him, then adding, "Oh, but I _will be_ someday. You'll see…well, maybe you will." His lips curled into his characteristic devious smirk, the whites of his teeth seemingly glistening, and Olivio only stared at him with blank, low set eyes. It seemed like he may have been thinking something, or pondering what the boy had said, but he made no further remark.

There was no further dialogue between them for just one more song. Not until about halfway through the album, after Olivio had switched to the cassette's B side, did he strike new conversation. Following the theme of some of the songs that had been playing, he brought up a topic which he knew Cioccolata had perverted interest in—the subject of the band's groupies and wild party culture.

"You know, there's a club I go to…" he looked at Cioccolata to see if he had his attention over the music, when he ascertained that he had it, he resumed, his deep brown eyes relaxing in the suave tone of his voice, "A lot of the people dance to music like this. And there's so many girls…heh, you can pretend for a night that you're one of the band's members, and have your own girls doing anything for you."

Cioccolata tried hard to remain cool, but his curiosity was peaked. He even almost curved in his seat facing the speaker. If he had his mouth even slightly open, he'd have already been drooling. Having several girls doing whatever you wanted? That was just the beginning of his budding sexual fantasies.

There didn't seem to be any ulterior motive in Olivio sharing this information, it seemed more like an ego trip for him, to share his experience and knowledge on something he knew the boy knew nothing about but was eager to learn. But Olivio stopped where he was at, then only smiling knowingly at Cioccolata.

"Well?" The youngster asked expectantly, "Did you ever do that?" He was thirsty for details now.

Olivio glanced out the window, put the tips of his well-kept fingernails to his lip, and a smirk then crept on his face as he looked back at him.

"Who do you think I am? Why wouldn't I?"

As Cioccolata then shot many questions to Olivio, the young man paused him in order to fully explain himself. He then educated the young Cioccolata in the revolving culture of the club, explaining to him that it wasn't unlike the pornographies that Cioccolata was interested in, that is, the bondage categories.

"It's a dungeon, actually. Now imagine all the girls dressed like that, tight straps, long boots and black leather. You see some crazy things that you wouldn't see in an ordinary club, that's for sure. Sometimes there's couples of doms and subs that come in. I know a guy there actually; he's got four women that he walks on a leash into the place."

Cioccolata's pale green eyes took on a glazed look at the mention. He looked onto the speaker with awe.

"Yeah, and sometimes the people will really get wild, publicly whipping their… "slaves." Sometimes they engage in erotic foreplay in front of everyone. Sometimes you see "owners" and their "pets." With that, sometimes it's sexual, but sometimes it isn't, really."

Cioccolata was intrigued by this as well. He asked, "Why is that? Is having a pet just that fluid?"

"I'm just a dom," Olivio stated, "But yeah, sometimes I see that a "master" will not only own a slave or two, but he might have someone he deems as a pet, as well. The relationship he would have with his pet wasn't always sexual. Sometimes it seemed like it was simply one of care, affection, and belonging. Sometimes the pet was a female, and strangely, he wouldn't fuck her, but only his slaves. But sometimes they will fuck her too, it all depends on the guy I guess...Oh! But one time I saw a man with another guy as a pet though, and they would both fuck his slaves!"

Their country, especially at the time, was especially sexually repressed. To hear stories such as these for the young Cioccolata, was amazing, let alone, in a word, a boner. He wanted to know more, so he begged upon Olivio more, endless questions.

"For many people, their sexuality is a way of life. We're not just doing it because we have a fetish for it, it's so much deeper. All these different kinds of play are exaggerations of traditional and nontraditional roles…Some people like to play master and slave roles because it represents society to them. Also, you should know, some guys like to be doms or masters because it's a rush for them. Some like to be because…they just like the feeling of _control…_but some, they're just natural born sadists, yeah. They just want to be able to abuse somebody in a safe way…"

The sound of Olivio's smooth voice in saying all this, sent a strong visceral response in Cioccolata. Despite having no experience, this all sounded true to him, somewhere deep inside, the voice of his soul resonated and shook violently in him; he knew it was true.

…_But some, they're just natural born sadists, yeah. They just want to be able to abuse somebody in a safe way…_Olivio's words imprinted upon the boy's limbic system.

_Yes. That sounds like me. But, I don't want it to be safe. I just want to abuse them…I want it to be real… _Cioccolata had thought.

He did, indeed, recalling after all the years, have this thought in his head. Olivio speaking to him about this stuck with him, and he remembered how lulled into a hypnagogic state he was upon listening.

"…And a lot of these people that come in here are swingers. That means if they've got a relationship already, they're consensually non-monogamous. _Also," _he looked to Cioccolata again as he spoke, as if to give some emphasis on his next words, "Not all of them are straight, you know what I mean, right? And some—they swing both ways..."

Cioccolata wanted to laugh, and so he did. He couldn't suppress it. But it seemed like Olivio got really defensive and took it as an insult.

"Don't you dare fucking laugh, you prick!" he slammed the stirring wheel, and then Cioccolata calmed down, just a bit. But he then regarded his friend somewhat quizzically. Despite how much they cursed each other out, his response seemed inappropriate. For sure, Olivio was a bit strange now.

But now Cioccolata couldn't gauge him, as the young man was staring out of the window to his side. All Cioccolata could see was voluminous black hair, each strand toward the crown distinguishable from the faint city lights peering into the Chevy.

It was almost like Olivio read his mind. Either that, or he felt the strange energy accumulating in his vehicle. He looked over at Cioccolata again, with his white face and his eyes, all surrounded by thick chunks of black eyeliner, then back down at the compartment containing his musical and fashion inspirations. The cassette playing had now only just concluded, so he quickly took it out and went to put another in. This time, it was "Love Gun."

Olivio didn't even get the cassette in the chamber yet, and Cioccolata was asking a brand-new question, although now it was of the here and now.

"Not driving me home yet?" He asked gently, as he was now starting to get somewhat tired. The talking wore him out, and he was riding his high like a wave.

"Nah, just one more." The abrupt guitar sequence at the start of the first track of "I Stole Your Love," erupted through the vehicle, but it barely sent a jolt through Cioccolata. Olivio himself looked a bit calmer than before, he only was giving some indication of excitement through his body language, though he did continue his singing.

The song prompted Cioccolata to ask Olivio a new question, once again, aimed toward Olivio's sexual prowess. All the young Cioccolata knew was that he needed to aspire to be him and more.

"How many girls did you sleep with?" he asked quickly and without any passion in his voice, as if he were asking how many cups of water he had drank in the day.

The question only seemed to catch Olivio off guard, but he soon smiled, rolling his eyes around the hood of the vehicle with pursed lips. He then answered the boy.

"Six." He studied Cioccolata's face after he said it, who had a small smile growing, "_So far,_" he added quickly into a laugh.

"Six? If you started around my age, or a little older, that's only one girl each year…And you've got the nerve to tease me?" he scoffed, adding, "I'll have doubled that amount of yours by the time I'm your age."

"We'll see, mega playboy." Olivio rolled his eyes, adding, "I will say this. You've got the looks to be one. But for now, you're taking pointers from me, so quiet." He shrugged him off flippantly.

Even so, he did give the boy's remark time to marinate in his imagination. Surely, he could definitely turn into quite a player. He was so charming and cute, but after he's fully through puberty, that cuteness would turn into something fierce. All the girls would be knocking down his door…

The thought did not give him any pleasure, and it wasn't because he felt to be in competition with him. It didn't have anything to do with that whatsoever, really. In an effort to distract from the unpleasant feelings he was now experiencing, he squirmed for some type of distraction. Soon enough, he found himself forming an idea in his mind, as they sat in silence only listening to the music.

When the song was finished, and on into the next one, Olivio began again; it was possible the subject material of the lyrics spurred him into the next subject.

"Say, you know how I told you about these bands and their groupies right?" He titled his head upward at an angle, looking quite handsome as he leaned on his locked steering wheel.

This was enough to perk Cioccolata up, despite his sudden drowsiness. "Yeah?"

"Well, those girls have to earn their groupie status. That's the only way they get a backstage pass." He looked down now at his lap now, chuckling.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I know this." Cioccolata's interest now waning. If he wasn't going to tell him anything new, his curiosity hardly stuck.

Olivio raised his arms and crossed them at the nape of his neck. He continued speaking, looking straight ahead out to the black night beyond. "I have an idea with this, see. Just act like you're a groupie. And I'll act like I'm Paul Stanley or something."

"I can tell _you're_ high." Cioccolata masked his shock with sarcasm.

"Mhm! _Yes, yes,_ mama, I am!" Olivio pouted his lips into a pucker. It seemed like he was already in his role.

Cioccolata narrowed his eyes now, a slow smile forming on his premature face. "Olivio, are you gay?"

The question left Olivio staring at the boy, like a deer caught in headlights. He likely wasn't expecting such a direct question.

"Taah!" he exhaled loudly into a twisted smile, then said, "No, no! I'm just roleplaying! This is the kind of stuff _we _do; you know what I mean?" He was referring to the BDSM scene, presumably, then continued, "It's not gay, because we're playing, and you're a girl now."

Cioccolata was shaking his head only vaguely, there was a look of skepticism on his features. His eyes bored into Olivio's as if he were scanning him, searching for anything valid in his explanation.

"Why would _I _be gay? Eh? You just asked me how many girls I slept with." He let out in a sour, petulant tone.

Cioccolata regarded him still seemingly unconvinced. If he was just fucking around with him like usual, he did a mighty good job at making it appear authentic, and it gave Olivio some insecurity.

Sensitive to the scrutiny, he quickly added, "You want to go to that club I mentioned don't you? Well, you're just going to stick out like a sore thumb if you don't have any experience. I wouldn't even be able to take you. So we'll just play around, okay? And then once I take you, you'll know exactly how to conduct yourself with the girls…Uh-huh, you'll be…_initiated."_

"That sounds like a bunch of bullshit. You're trying to bribe me, it sounds like."

"That's not it at all. If anything—I'm grooming you for your initiation into all this stuff. _I'm_ doing _you_ a favor."

He leaned back more in his seat now, spread his legs out some, and slid the palm of his hand down his own thigh, all while sizing up Cioccolata in his own seat with hot intensity. He turned down his stereo system while he was at it.

"Now, you show me what you can do, girl."

Cioccolata stared. In all honestly, he didn't know what to do. He sat there like a boulder was planted in his lap. He almost wanted to get the fuck out of the car. But the only thing keeping him was thinking about going to that club. At this point in his development, his hormones were running wild, testosterone was hitting him heavy, plus all of the working out Olivio got him into doing wasn't helping his budding sex drive.

His heart was pumping just thinking about it all. This was his chance to enter a world he always wanted to, since he first discovered it close to a year ago. He knew he wanted to be like the doms on the videos, and really, it would be a dream come true if he could one day own a group of slaves, all serving him, all following his orders. In everything. Everyway.

He knew that being sub wouldn't be his preference…but his curiosity was stimulated here.

Cioccolata was open minded. He was willing to experiment, especially sexually. If he did this, he would know what being a sub feels like, wouldn't he? His heart jumped and fluttered, a feeling you can imagine when you know you're about to make sexually taboo decision, or engage in the act, rather. It was completely impulsive.

As soon as he felt his heart jump, and a familiar pulse in his groins, a devious smile went over his face. Olivio was a lot older than him. And yet, in his experience of knowing him for close to three weeks, he seemed to be easy to manipulate. He wondered briefly if in doing this, he would be able to later hurt the man.

And if they did anything like that _right now_…it was _technically _statutory rape. And with that final thought—the fact that it was something he was not supposed to be doing—he found himself attempting to go along with the roleplay; after adding up all the benefits in his mind.

When the track "Love Gun" began, Cioccolata teased with a sweetened, otherwise uncharacteristic tone of voice, "Ohhh, but…I'm a virgin."

His tone was sultry, more feminine now than boyish. His intent with the remark was to pick at Olivio's much earlier statement this night, when he had pointed out his virginity in a negative way.

Olivio had a look of surprise. That must have seemed fast. But the surprise soon turned to delight. He seized the opportunity, and he leaned toward the girl in pretense.

He first looked down at the uniform Cioccolata wore still for whatever reason, in which he assumed he was just accustomed to, which was just the case. He wasn't interested in pondering this fact in his corrupt mind, however. He didn't ponder it, simply because—since he first encountered the boy—it drove him wild without a foreseeable end. He in fact knew, that he had to have him from the start, and he needed some way to get in.

But to think now that victory was his, almost a month later—he felt like he might just keel over with jouissance! He dug his nails into the seat where Cioccolata sat, moving forward in lewd hunger.

"Yeah…?" hot breath trailed along Cioccolata's nape, just infiltrating the collar of his blouse.

The sight of bare skin from the single loose button excited the young man looming over him, and he added to his own excitement by stealing a glance down at the bare thighs made fuller as they rested into the front seat. Those short-shorts… the suspenders… the uniform in its entirety—he fought the urge to rip it all off the boy.

After his prolonged glare, his heart jumping in the coming anticipation to finally lay hands on him, he whispered in confidence, "It's not a problem at all."

When he looked into Cioccolata's eyes just then, he saw not quite desire there, but a burning curiosity which led him to believe that everything was proceeding well. He knew that if he could show him how good it feels, he'd hook him, and then he'd be his forever.

Cioccolata lifted his face toward the one inclined above him, he felt his smooth hands run over his thighs. And, as he recalled it, it did feel good. His tensed body relaxed more into their games. When the man's hand crept up his thigh, under the opening of his shorts, Cioccolata inhaled slightly to the feel the fabric lifting up and trailing across his skin just barely. He closed his eyes in response, it did…it did feel so good.

As the hand climbed higher, he found himself in a mental debate. It did feel so wrong, a part of him didn't want it. But a part of him did, because it felt so satisfying to be touched there…where his hand was going… and because it felt so wrong, all the same, it made him increasingly curious. Why the dilemma? It made him feel shameful but satisfyingly so.

But Olivio stopped his incline, his fingers only traced the outline of Cioccolata undergarments.

He heard the man's smooth voice whisper directly into his ear, full to the brim with sexual longing, "You're mine now, Cioccolata… now be a good…_girl_, and let me kiss you."

.


	5. Chapter 5

"_All the children just like me have something that_

_make them tremble of fear,_

_and they don't know what it is. _

_That white house which they wouldn't want to leave,_

_it's their youth that will never come back." __~Casa Bianca, Marisa Sannìa_

* * *

**.**

**Capitolo V: **

_-Dallo schiavo al padrone: seconda fase__-_

Cioccolata's defenses seemed to leave him suddenly, he looked up at the virile man seated far too close to him, willing the experience on. The voice didn't even seem to sound like it belonged to his friend anymore, but of someone he never knew at all. A side of him he did not imagine until tonight.

Olivio took the gesture as a willing surrender to him, he leaned in, and began planting a slow, deep kiss on his full lips, letting him taste the black lipstick smeared over his own perfectly outlined ones. He slipped his tongue in his mouth, then tasting the evidence he had left.

He kept going, inclining and pressing his face in forward, reaching his tongue deeper toward Cioccolata's tonsils. He was truly in heaven to have gotten a taste of him, but he wanted more. Cioccolata's inexperience led him to being only too receptive in this; he made no moves or oral play.

He parted his lips from him only slightly enough so that he could speak into his mouth, "Come on, girl. Move your tongue a little, move with me."

He decided on making a push. He ran his hands up Cioccolata's arms, until reaching his blouse. Expertly, he began unbuttoning it. He could hardly contain himself; he knew he may have been moving too fast, but it concerned him little. When he had reached the bottom, he pushed the fabric laterally, until he exposed his slightly built chest.

His digits entwined with the straps of the suspender, only teasing, before he shifted his focus to his chest. He fondled his breast as if it were a woman's, then circling around the areolas until he hardened his nipples. He applied pressure to the nubs, rolling them between the pads of his thumb and index. Cioccolata inhaled gently, and his brows relaxed increasingly. He hardly noticed that he was beginning to recline in his seat, but when he finally did, and figured it was Olivio's doing, it felt like nothing more than a slight shift.

The fondling felt so good for Cioccolata, it overwhelmed him with massive confusion. More and more, his brief discomfort vanished as he felt himself shift more into his role. Was this really how it felt to be a woman? To be on the bottom? It was good, and yet…his mind wandered to what it would be like on the top. For now, everything was fine. The racing in his mind began to cease, as he felt Olivio's weight shift increasingly over his body, and his lips nuzzling his ear, hearing him whisper, "Good girl," here and there.

He trailed kisses along the developing boy's jawline. In all honestly, the roleplay was sexually frustrating for him. He felt the desire to unzip his fly, and overlay his hardened length along the boys, and jerk them both off simultaneously. But he was also very anxious to ruin anything going on now. If Cioccolata wanted to stop, he wasn't sure if he would be able to anymore, especially now as he inched further on top of him.

All he felt he wanted to do, was acknowledge the forming and maturing masculine build the boy already possessed, but he pushed it all out the window in favor of preserving the moment; the objective of seeing it through. Even so, he took advantage of what he could subtly. When he noticed the boy's protruding bulge in his throat, he lowered himself more, and enveloped it between his lips; acknowledging the proof of the boy's budding masculinity.

"Mmmmhm.." He finally let out a hum, and his passions unleashed.

Cioccolata, amidst the rush and confusion he found himself in, was able to acknowledge the peculiarity in his friend. All this time, he saw him to be a pillar of masculinity, yet now, he exuded only seemingly long repressed passion. It was hard to imagine that all was a farce. Before he could think on it anymore, he felt Olivio's weight completely rest over him, and he gasped when he felt the undeniable hardened bulge throbbing into his naval.

Olivio was so close, he heard his gentle gasp, so he chuckled and teased, "Hm? You never felt a man like that before, have you, baby?"

He unbuckled Cioccolata's suspenders after, but he didn't feel the release of the clip, only the slight pulling at the button and fly on his shorts.

"This cute little uniform…I was watching you when I first saw you in this. I wanted you so bad, and then you spoke to me." He ran his hand down his exposed leg, tracing his fingers along the long tube socks he wore. "…I want these on still," he commented, his hand then reached back up to the unbuttoned shorts, "but these, I want off."

He looked in Cioccolata's eyes for permission. What he saw was an intense green glare, anticipating his next move. But he read in his slightly furrowed brows, there was marked distress. It gave him concern, but not stronger than the desire to proceed onward. And in fact, the slight distress aroused him more. Those green eyes, they were the sexiest things he'd ever seen, it only served to make him feel wilder.

As he began pulling the shorts and undergarments off the boy, he sensed him tense up, and a slight whimper was audible. The boy hated himself for the eruption, he hated the feeling of anxiety creeping into his chest. Yet all for the sake of experimentation, as well as the hope in going to the club, he endured. Even still, he couldn't deny the rush he got from the thrill of doing something taboo. His pride on the matter was long gone. He reasoned that only if he surrendered to this, would he grow mentally. It was then as well, for the sake of a future goal he had every intention on realizing.

He decided to channel himself into his role better, finally.

He whispered, "Please…be gentle."

He had no idea how much more fuel would be added to the fire within Olivio by saying so, in purposely making himself sound more feminine, sweet, ripe and innocent as he alluded himself to be. He played a young virgin girl so well, with only one line.

Despite how high his general intelligence already was for his age, however, it was nowhere near the surge it would take on in his adult years—it did not quite register for him yet that Olivio was hardly interested in his ability play the role he had been given. Cioccolata did of course, understand that what they were doing was wrong, that's why he was partly so excited by it. And despite his initial suspicion, he did believe that Olivio was indeed trying to play out a fantasy of what it would feel like being a rock star like the ones he aspired to be like, at least in fashion and lifestyle.

His exposed genitals were the next thing high in his awareness and it was discomforting but liberating. The man above him had already lifted his own body slightly off him, and he stared down as if admiring his own work. He was, of course, impressed to no end. The boy beneath him was a dream come true for him, his mid-neck length hair was slightly spilled out, framing his cheeks, and his body—except for the opened buttoned-down blouse—were all laid out before him for his brown eyes only.

His eyes slowly absorbed not only his developing figure in the reduced lighting, but the outline of an impressive, erect girth. He couldn't believe it. Even from when he first saw him, he couldn't help but notice how tall he was, for just a boy. He might have been about 5'7 tops. The matter of his build, and now the length he had on him…What would he be like when he's just a little bit older? Seventeen? _Twenty-one? _By then, Olivio would be twenty-seven. And with that, he was determined to see it, he was fixed on making the boy his, of scooping him up. Taking him under his wing, molding him into his world, indoctrinating him with his ways, habits, dress, lifestyle, musical taste, and of course…his sexuality.

He didn't want to make Cioccolata his little boyfriend, he wanted something deeper than that. He wanted to make him his sub, and in time, he would train him to be his pet as well, and finally, his slave. When Olivio said he was simply just a dom—that was a lie. He was aware that he was being somewhat deceptive in all this, and he was aware of the consequences if it got out. But he knew what he wanted all the same, and so it all concerned him little. Whenever he wanted something strongly, he hunted it down tooth and nail. It never concerned him how much destruction he left in the process.

This is all to say, while he did genuinely care for Cioccolata, he also represented to Olivio a conquest; something he was determined to use and abuse for his own satisfaction. He suspected that there was much that Cioccolata didn't know about him…when he had stated that some men in the scene were natural born sadists, he was really speaking for himself.

With that, the momentary admiration he gave to the boy's body with his eyes, he settled into proceeding exactly how had planned. His own long suppressed desires for him, in combination with his high, it was driving him mad.

"…Are you…my pet now, dear Cioccolata..?" He whispered into his ear, as he began fondling him at the crotch and up his length, finally feeling his erection full in his hand. When he felt Cioccolata becoming more erect than before from the touch, heard another slight, modest gasp, his lips curl into a lewd smile. His canine grazed over his lower lip and he bit in, trying to keep himself from digging in.

But then he heard Cioccolata's gasp turn into speech yet again, "Yes…yes I am—"

That was all it took then for Olivio. He eased back down over him, took his lips between his own again, whispering back to him, "Yes…good…good girl," he was unzipping his own fly to his black leather flare pants.

Cioccolata's breathing reached a pitch, trapped inside Olivio's mouth, and he gasped loudly into it when he felt the man slap the anterior of his dick against his own. With it, he felt him wrap his palm around both of their dicks, until their skins were gliding against each other as he expertly grinded into him. Cioccolata was pinned beneath him, and the realization of how fast everything was all happening now hit like a freight train as he felt one leg, and then the next, being pulled up over Olivio's hip with his free hand.

"Ah! Oh! Oh…" his heart raced, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt himself already, getting ready to cum, not even one minute into the jerking. Both must have already been producing a lubrication from their pre-ejaculative mucus, as their dicks now had some trouble thoroughly jerking the other completely; slipping past each other before fulfilling each stroke. Olivio corrected this quick however, his palm tightened, squeezing both of their cocks harder against one another.

"Ahhh! Oh my god, yes! yes…_yes!_" Cioccolata finally cried out, finding himself losing out to his coming orgasm, he squeezed his legs around him.

"Yes, you like that baby girl? Do you wanna cum for me then too?"

Cioccolata unfurled into a mess of incoherent feminine and other times more masculine moans. He'd only ever jerked himself off God knows how many times at this point, and he never imagined it would be done like this, without his own exertion, and conducted by someone who seemed to know the exact right motions.

Olivio's breathing increased and he was sweating slightly, he couldn't take his eyes off how Cioccolata cried out, how his olive fists attempted to grip the cushioning beneath him. Seeing him like that, not only did it work up his own load, but certainly…in regard to romance, he could feel that Cioccolata was pulling the trigger of his "love gun."

With a final hard jerk which yanked his foreskin tightly back, Cioccolata unloaded, his fluids oozing over Olivio's finger and spraying into his own naval. Olivio tightened his grip on the boy's hose at that moment, making him jerk up in response in the form of an upward thrust. He threw his arm out, capturing the thin fabric of Olivio's tank top, moaning into the heated air of the vehicle, sweat accumulated along his brows.

He was hardly settled from what just occurred, when he felt Olivio's fingers graze over his naval. He didn't realize it, as he still gasped, but Olivio was collecting his cum and placing it over his own dick.

"Are you going to finish me now, baby? Hm?"

Before Cioccolata had time to answer, he felt his hips being dragged down and held at an angle. It was amazing how light he felt in the moment, how easily he was handled. It reminded him of what it would feel like to be…powerless. Just like a woman.

Sure enough, the feeling intensified.

"Wha—" he gasped, as he felt the man's glans just begin penetrating his asshole.

"Close your legs," he ordered him instead, diverting his attention, sending the boy off into different directions.

But instead, he did it himself. He closed his eyes together, and began leaning his body down, pressing into the backs of his thighs. But as he eased further down atop him, his dick also inched inside him, increasingly.

Cioccolata bite down hard into his lip and he felt the undeniable burn of tearing. This time, he cried out, "N-no! It's hurting now!"

Olivio was lifted up over him only by his arms, he stared at Cioccolata's pleads with fascination. He tilted his head, his hair which hung down was somewhat cover, but somewhat drenched in sweat.

"Oh no, I'm not stopping..." He took a breath before continuing, "Nnngh, _yes, _it's going to feel good for you soon, baby."

But anytime soon, it didn't. The slithering pain continued, sometimes feeling as though it crept into his spine. It felt too much to handle like this, it made him want to cry even—yet he endured it.

"_Olivio!" _he cried now, and he felt the man thrust inward fully, then pivoting his hips into small circles, as if he was trying to make room inside the boy's ass.

He lifted his face. _Finally! _It felt so good. It was heaven. He groaned as he began to pull himself out, feeling the sweat between his cheeks add a thin layer of lubrication. He slammed himself back down over him, pressing his legs further back until they were level with his face. He planted wild thrusts into him, and every time he was balls deep in him, he bucked out with a jerk before throwing himself in again. He kept fucking the living shit of him, groaning and panting lewdly, superimposing Cioccolata's sonorous moans.

All the vibrations he felt in his balls brought his cock again to a reawakened erection; it was for sure, all beginning to feel good, being rammed into with such force. The boy's perversion was being sated, he felt during all this, that he understood what all women felt like as they were being fucked. Indeed, now that he felt for the first time, his first sexual experience, being on the receiving end of penetration.

With his heart racing as fast as his pants, he attempted to plead with Olivio to slow down his frenzied ravaging, but instead, the man above him pressed his palm over his mouth, silencing him from there on. He cried into his palm, but it only excited Olivio; he smiled down at Cioccolata triumphantly, digesting his distress. He just couldn't get enough of his sweet virgin asshole, and he couldn't think of the last time he had it like this…

He inched his fingers slowly to the gap between the boy's asshole and scrotum, and gently pressed his thumb into the tensed flesh. He made circles into his perineum, in tune with the same rhythm he had switched in grinding on his ass. After he bored of torturing him like this, he began gently cupping his swollen balls, teasing his finger between the sacs.

Cioccolata was already gripping Olivio's wrist over his mouth, but now, he squeezed tighter, and his eyes shot up toward his temple as he felt a glob of cum fighting its way past the mechanical stress Olivio infringed upon him.

"Mmhhmm!" His throat moaned into his palm.

Olivio began expertly jerking Cioccolata's cock off between his middle and ring finger while his thumb and index continued teasing his reddened balls. All the while, he was cumming soon himself, rocking himself into him harder as he felt the added resistance of the boy's muscles contracting around his girth.

"Ah, god, _fuck!_ Fuck Cioccolata! Your fucking ass! It's so hot! _Haah! Hahh!" _

It was then that he saw the boy squirting out his load into a lucid mess that reached as high as his diaphragm, the latter which looked exhausted from all the bodily stress. Cioccolata was covered now in sweat.

Olivio couldn't handle seeing it anymore, feeling it. He moaned now, "Oh baby, I'm going to cum in you now so hard..!" He titled his face, biting his front teeth into the tips of Cioccolata's socks, right below his knee. He began panting a "yes" over and over as he barreled into him, releasing his contents from deep inside of him.

He rested in him, now drenched, the sweat from his hairline dripped down onto Cioccolata, who had his face titled, and stared up at the man with only a peak between his eyelids.

But after his orgasm ceased, he did think on everything that had just transpired. It wasn't that he regretted anything at all; but he realized the implications of everything. The reality hit. He didn't even know what to say to him. It almost felt like a cover of his had been blown, as he felt Cioccolata's cold green eyes lying upon him. It was either genuine, or an insecurity of his own.

He got off him just then, threw his tank top off, and stepped out of his vehicle, giving Cioccolata that time to gather his bearings. He did just that, first by readjusting his seat back upright, then by putting his undergarments and shorts back on, ignoring the mess all over his naval, and the feeling of a wet glob deep in his ass. He saw Olivio's arm creep into the driver's seat window, instinctively reaching to where he kept his cigarettes.

The windows were still open, and the breeze relieved his heated body. He left his blouse open, planning or asking for Olivio for something to clean himself off when he came back into the vehicle. He could see from the digits on the car's clock that it was well past when he should have been making it back home; just past twelve o'clock. He ran his hand through his hair nonchalantly, then wiping the sweat from his forehead, and finally, reflected. But what was there to think? Should he write on it later?

The incredible thing is that, aside from his orgasms, he felt nothing. All in the heat of the moment was the experience exciting, the thrill maddened him deeply. Yet now, his psyche went back to its base clean slate of absolutely no feeling, thought or concern. In addition to this, his high had somewhat plummeted, and although, he was quite wide awake now, sleep seemed to be calling him.

When Olivio reintroduced himself and the smell of tobacco back into his vehicle, the atmosphere changed. He looked at Cioccolata to his side, who only stared straight ahead. The night was not only clear, but silent. The albums that were once playing were long over. Olivio felt he had trouble reasserting himself, it was clear what they were before, would never be again. In his mind, it was for the better. He regretted nothing.

"Hey, how r'you feeling?" He asked, resuming confidence and speaking to the boy. For whatever reason, there was times that the boy unnerved him, who was supposed to be so much older.

A pause and reply followed, "I'm good."

Olivio nodded his head, then affirming him. "Okay. I'm gonna drive you home now. But I want you to know something before I do." He exhaled, before continuing, "I want to be honest…I'm bisexual."

Cioccolata stared at him with his head only tilted slightly, he had his arms crossed now, his shirt still open. In honesty, he didn't care much for his confession, his interest remained in going to this club he was told of, to see it for himself. With that, he spoke.

"Look, it's fine. It doesn't bother me whatever you say you are…" He ran his hands down his neck, and seeing Cioccolata lift his arm to do so, with his chest visible, was enough to drive Olivio mad yet again. It didn't help that he felt validated by his words.

He looked back at him now, and smiled full with his teeth, which seemed to glisten in the midnight mist peering through the windshield. His heart dropped seeing it, he always thought that this boy was just too gorgeous for his own good. How good it felt to know that he had now claimed him…

"But now you owe _me." _There was an excited gleam in his eyes, and Olivio mistook that entirely for a passion in himself, rather than what Cioccolata was truly alluding to.

Olivio inched closer to him yet again. The awkward energy that was once between them seemed to disappear with Cioccolata's smile and acceptance of him. Cioccolata felt a tug just then on his hair and felt Olivio's hand grazing over his. He had leaned even closer into him. When he spoke again, his warm breath enveloped his ear.

"You're for real? You're not fucking with me, are you?" He spoke gently at first, but on the last note, the usual note of defense crept in.

"No. I'm being real with you."

_I want you… _Olivio thought to himself as he stared into those delicate green eyes. How did he possess such gentle, watery light eyes, while at the same time, looked so dominant, solid and threatening? His eyes were a visual contradiction.

He just couldn't believe it. Was he really his? Someone so perfect and innocent? He ran his hands upon his bare chest, inhaling as he looked down at his now secured crotch. His own shirt was still off, his tank discarded somewhere. He was unconcerned with it.

"I know we were just _playing…" _his tone was flirtatious, and continued, "But you agreed to be my pet. Do you know what that means? It means that I will be the one you belong to, when I do take you with me to that club. It means that I am your owner."

Cioccolata smirked then, and leaned closer into Olivio's face, until their lips were just millimeters apart. Now he ran his own hands over Olivio's chest and watched his eyes as his pupils widened to the gesture.

After holding the eye contact for just a bit, Cioccolata pressed his lips gently against Olivio's smeared black ones. Surprisingly, Olivio did not seize upon it; he did not attempt to control the kiss, to bring the boy deeper between his lips, or use his tongue at all. He enjoyed the sweet, light, chocolatey peck, all simply because it felt too heavenly for him to interfere with.

Once concluded, Cioccolata whispered into his lips, "There's my answer."

Olivio didn't want it to end, if he could have died then, it would have been a happy death; to have been kissed by an angel. For Olivio, who had spent what felt like his whole life repressing his sexuality, it felt empowering and liberating. He wouldn't allow it, at least not now, but he felt like crying even.

"Just give me two weeks to play with you. There's just…so much I want to do with you. Then I promise I'll take you…okay?" He paused, and Cioccolata nodded. They stared at each other for just a moment. Then Olivio leaned into Cioccolata's ear, nuzzling it and running his teeth around the folds of his ear. "One last thing for tonight…"

He lifted his hand to Cioccolata's chin, grazing it with his fingers romantically, until he began cupping his cheek as well.

"What is it?" Cioccolata replied quietly.

"Will you…call me daddy sometimes? Will you be daddy's little boy?"

"Why do you ask me so many questions?" Cioccolata countered, almost killing the mood.

"Come on, Cioccolata. Just entertain me a little bit." He added, slightly annoyed now. Patience wasn't something Olivio naturally had.

"I think I've entertained you enough…" Cioccolata added quietly, in sarcasm.

It was a good one, Olivio knew it, and it ticked him more. "Don't get wise. You know, you won't be allowed to be pulling that shit with me anymore."

As Olivio twisted the key into the ignition, the vehicle roared back to life, but not without him becoming distracted. He looked around the seats for his long-discarded tank top. It didn't matter too much to him if the possible folks lurking in the heat of the night could see his shirtless, dark hairy chest—but surely a speeding vehicle with the windows all the way down would create a typhoon within the interior of the Chevy. He would rather stay a bit warm, though a tank top really didn't have much to offer.

"Now where the hell did it go…?" he asked, though not directly to Cioccolata. Even still, Cioccolata handed to him accordingly.

He took it, and without saying anything else, threw it on quickly. As soon as he did, something didn't feel right. Right on the abdominal, the fabric was wet, and it was undoubtedly the smell of cum and sweat.

Olivio snapped his neck to Cioccolata, he was now buttoning his blouse, after finally cooling off.

"Oh, you nasty, sneaky little bastard!" he shouted to the boy, who only reciprocated with a smirk.

* * *

**.**

His wrists were tied tightly behind his back crossing one another in a perfect 'x' formation, completely inconsiderate and unforgiving of his arms—strained by the harness gripping his bare chest. The weaving of the black cords left a maze of black mesh, circling around his breast, leaving them bare only with hardened nipples from stimulation. At his neck was a choker which the weaving was attached, biting hard into his neck. This was a scene he was used to by now, perhaps the tenth time this had been done, and as of now, things were settling down.

To clarify, it was one of those nights for Olivio, and Cioccolata's natural bratty attitude didn't help. He was in the middle of being punished for being a bad boy.

It had been about two weeks since Olivio began playing with Cioccolata, the latter enduring on their relationship all for a simple goal in mind. It wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy this. As the bondage, master and servant play was now his first sexual experience, he laminated it into his memory; burning every movement, procedure, and method of Olivio's domination into his limbic system permanently.

It would certainly be a lie for the young Cioccolata to say that he didn't enjoy being a bottom sexually, but the conflict that began arising in their relationship was the fact that he was anything but submissive on a day to day. Although he could play the role well, it was not what he wanted. His "switch" was a compromise at best. He knew for a fact now, no matter how good it felt getting his ass fucked and eaten out, that being the dominant one was in his blood. It was his calling, he felt.

He even often found himself trying to turn the tables on Olivio, using psychologically manipulative tactics and provocation. Anything that would allow the boy to enable him to have the glorious feeling of accomplishment followed by a veritable victory.

Despite the sexual frustration building within Cioccolata, he still considered Olivio as a great introduction into the world of dominance and submission which he aspired to be a part of. While Cioccolata enjoyed the feeling of helplessness of being bound tightly and fucked mercilessly, while sometimes, but not always, only being able to watch the man above him…what excited him more was the idea of making someone else feel this way and more. Much more.

When he saw Olivio, he saw himself. But something much more intense, cruel, and sadistic. His paraphilia and curiosity to experiment began leading him down the spiral of depravity which would ultimately lead him to his more immoral acts and disregard for others. At this point of his needed evolution for that to happen, he wasn't quite there yet. But at present, he was at the brink of the kick he needed.

On the other hand, the experience for Olivio was quite different. Though the two of them were well known in engaging in antisocial behaviors and mischief making of any sort, he had no idea of the fact that he was largely being used by the boy. It was an all-around bizarre situation really. Olivio truly felt as though _he_ was the one behind the wheel in all matters, even developing some guilt over his conscious telling him that he had used the boy for his selfish gains—of desiring him far too much.

He only rationalized this thought in believing that he truly loved Cioccolata and that he was protecting him and taking him "under his wing." He knew full well that, regarding the club, he had told a half-truth. While Cioccolata would have been mocked a bit for being a virgin, plenty of people would have been willing to play with him.

_But Olivio just wanted to be the one who took his virginity. _

And now, their relationship soon went sour however, not too long after he began taking Cioccolata to the club he had promised him. He started to become heavily possessive. He seemed to get angrier when he saw that Cioccolata was speaking with young girls in the scene. He began to see from this, at times done shamelessly in front of him, just how devoid and inconsiderate of Olivio's feelings that he was. With the anger building, Olivio more and more began to realize it was him that was being used, not the other way around.

Which led to the occasion at hand. Both were sitting in his vehicle smoking a blunt, when it all came to a head. In a moment, the building tension from the past two weeks poured out.

Olivio spoke, "You know, I see you talking to them whores…heh. You're ready to just flip the tables around all the way, huh? You're trying to be a dom now, _and _fuck bitches too."

"Sure. Why not?" Cioccolata was not interested in the conversation already, he was sincerely hoping Olivio wasn't about to be killing his high with his gay shenanigans.

Boy, you think you know someone. When he first met Olivio, he thought he was a tough guy. Everything about him suggested that. But not only does it turn out he's a faggot, but he's just an emotional rollercoaster everyday anymore. Hardly fit to be a dom, in his newbie opinion.

"_You asshole… _You cold piece of shit, you! You don't give a shit about my feelings, do you!?"

"Why would I? Is there a reason that I should?" Now Cioccolata just teased him, not unlike his typical bratty behavior with him, except now was especially not appropriate, nor wise.

Olivio put his blunt out in haste. "Because I love you, Cioccolata. I always did. But you're so cold. You're so distant… you just don't look like you're into any of it… or us… And you're obviously not into it. That's why you're talking to those girls. Why did you agree if you weren't into it? I don't understand it." He stressed the words even further, "You…definitely enjoyed being with me. What changed?" This was in fact, his first love confession to the boy.

Cioccolata smiled. "Heh… Was that little heartfelt confession of yours supposed to make me feel bad for you? _I don't_ love you. I was curious about you, an…experiment, you could say."

His gentle voice as the boy said this tore apart Olivio, who was still in the most utter shock that he wasn't able to form tears as of yet. It felt like his head was spinning, and his whole world was crumbling. To hear that he had only been used by someone he loved…that he fell in love with…

His mind was spinning too fast to hold a complete thought in his mind, as his memories with Cioccolata flashed before his minds eye. He was unable to grasp how a kid he spent so much time within bonding, could have been manipulating him like this; especially when it felt so real! Sure, it wasn't _too _long. But it was enough time spent intimately…

His eyes shifted focus to Cioccolata's movements, but it all felt like a daze; he was simply wrapped in some form of torturous hypnosis.

Cioccolata was finishing his blunt, at perfect timing. He began to speak in his characteristically sweet but cruel voice, admiring the look of distress ridden on Olivio's face.

"But if you _want..."_ he dragged out the last word, put his blunt out in the ashtray whilst Olivio stared at him with shocked and petrified eyes, then continued, "I'll give you a farewell blow. Just something you can remember me by, while you're sitting in your car tonight all alone—while I'm fucking one of those bitches you mentioned with my big fat dick, which is almost the same size as yours! Hah! By the time I'm your age, I'll be bigger than you... As a matter of fact, I barely felt anything when you fucked me, and I doubt it has anything to do with all of the shits I've taken in my life."

He ran his hand through the hair at his nape again with his eyes downcast for that moment. When he picked them up to face Olivio again, he was as pale as a ghost. His eyes were full to the brim with tears. He pathetically tried to speak but choked on his words. Cioccolata absorbed all his features like inhaling a long breath of fresh air. Satisfied with the mess he had created of a man a good amount older than him and the ego boost that came along with it; he attempted to coolly exit his vehicle.

But Olivio stopped him.

Despite the level of Cioccolata's emotionally abusive words, Olivio was too mad for him to let him go like that. Rather, he didn't waste the time in thoroughly interpreting his words anymore—that would come later. The fright of losing him spurred him to desperate action.

He grabbed the boy's wrists, harshly restraining him without a care. With a clipped tone and crazed brown eyes he spoke, giving Cioccolata a glare which could slice mountains.

"Don't you dare. You're not fucking goin' anywhere. I could _kill you—_for saying that _shit _to me, you little bastard! Don't you know who I _am!?_ Do you think I'm a fool?!_"_

He began to squeeze and rattle the boy's wrists with subdued fury, biting his lip until he could swear he tasted blood.

"I…I will _never_ let you go_…you belong to me, Cioccolata." _

"Like hell I do! Hah! Keep your filthy hands off me, don't come anywhere near me anymore." His lips pulled back into a sick snarl, "All you are is city garbage; you, and everyone within it are the sewage of a society. You have no purpose other than to squirm for every secondhand meal. You are of the weak and the feeble according to natural law: you and your kind are meant to die out." He slurred his words in a deliberate hiss at the man, each enunciation biting its listener.

Olivio shook his head rapidly as if he couldn't even comprehend what he just heard, and he probably couldn't. He glared at Cioccolata like he was nuts, and that was also probably the case.

"_The fuck_ are you on about, _huh!?_ You got a problem with city folk? Fuck it! I'm not fuckin' going into _that! _That doesn't have_ shit _to do with_ any of this!" _

He slammed his other fist into the vehicle and faced Cioccolata again, creeping over his smaller body to his own until he loomed over him. He pulled his wrists toward his chest, until he squeezed them there, forcing the boy to feel his rapidly beating heart.

"I need you. Please…I'll forgive you, for all those horrible things you said. And if you want to see girls too…" he narrowed his eyes in disgust, a lowering of his pride that was completely unimaginable for him, "It's okay, if you're still _my _boyfriend…I'll deal with it." He concluded.

He looked into Cioccolata's dazzling green eyes once more, the eyes that he loved. But as he stared at them, he felt he saw nothing in them, it was as blank as a sheet of paper. His captured wrists seemed to be catatonic suddenly, but despite the clear lack of empathy written on the boy's features, hope that he clung to desperately endured. It gave him the strength to try again.

"Please, Cioccolata. Please…_please _don't tell me that you don't love me, especially when I know you must. Anything but that…"

Tears were welling in his eyes now, and he couldn't fight it any longer. He was going defenseless, speaking aloud something so personal. Indeed, Cioccolata was perfect to him, and even in the short time that he knew him, he was maddened by his charm. He knew that he wanted to be with him forever, and constantly pictured what they could be, excited by the thought of an grown up Cioccolata, and how their relationship would evolve. It was something so beautiful and precious to him and gave him a sense of immense belonging and acceptance that he felt he spent his life longing for.

In the midst of all his thoughts on his dream—a vision that he felt slipping between the cracks of reality as the seconds drew on, escaping him permanently like the sand in an hourglass; his grip on the boy's wrists went limp.

Cioccolata shrugged his wrists free from the man, then chuckling; reviving the pain in his heart with its rise and fall. It was a giggle which would burn into his memory.

"You still don't get it. But, I understand why. You have inferior intellect, so you just have a hard time grasping my words." He shook his head smiling, then he leaned toward Olivio's slopping face, enjoying how held in suspense he was; hungry for every word that came out of his mouth.

Cioccolata placed his palm over Olivio's chest, directly over his heart. He leaned in toward the man, gently nuzzling past the jet-black hair which seemed to now hang defeated.

"Don't you _see?" _he breathed into his lips lightly, the recipient slightly parting them, anticipating the kiss which he feared would mark his end.

Cioccolata pressed his lips against his, but did not press forward, and neither did Olivio, who appeared to be too afraid to do anything now. Indeed, his eyes were wide open and staring at Cioccolata as if he was standing on the very edge of the earth.

"You're just a big dirty faggot, Olivio, and you truly enjoy fucking little boys…"

As soon as he said it, he felt the man inhale his breath, and pull away from him, looking at him in absolute horror mixed with seething hatred. But Cioccolata enjoyed it even still, he looked at him squarely and continued.

"…and you'll never be accepted for this." He looked over at the car door, urging it open until he heard the click and felt the cool summer breeze seep through. He looked back at him one last time, preferring to savor the aftermath. "_Never in your life." _

This was his valediction. It of course, wasn't that Cioccolata cared enough to judge Olivio's sexuality, especially considering that he engaged in it himself, albeit he wasn't fully matured. The desired effect was that it would destroy the man mentally, to dig the blade as far into his heart as possible.

Once satisfied, Cioccolata exited the vehicle without another look back. He didn't need it after all that he had just absorbed of the man's features. As he walked away, never looking back, he heard Olivio begin shrieking at him all types of names and all other types of nonsense and sobbing gibberish.

"YOU PIECE OF SHIT! PIECE OF SHIT-PIECE OF SHIT-PIECE OF SHIT-YOU! AFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOU!" Olivio screeched down the block at him, hanging from his car window.

Obviously livid, he was shaking from the anger. Just like that, he snapped open the glove compartment, and soon was clutching his Beretta M9. With a flick of the thumb, the safety clipped, and he pulled the revolver back, ensuring he was loaded. This motherfucker didn't know who he was dealing with. The only ones who ever disrespected him that greatly were long dead and capped; the thought became his resolve.

But Olivio's nerves were shot. He didn't bother to hold the gun with both hands, instead throwing his arm out the window clutching the firearm with one hand. During the most crucial moments, his finger pulled back the trigger during the descension of his elbow, sending two distinctive bullets in the air with a _pop-pop!_

Cioccolata, though sheltered, had gathered enough observation of this city to know without looking what he had just heard. His heart flapped, but he knew immediately of course, that he wasn't hit. Instead the shock was that it had to have been Olivio shooting at him. He didn't even know he _owned _a gun!

As he hauled ass around a corner, he risked a peak to ascertain what he'd heard.

Sure enough, Olivio was hanging out of his window in broad daylight with the most ferocious look on his painted face; which now only added to his crazed expression.

He looked around, those who were once walking were now running and hiding, hearing a woman screaming "OH! OH! Mamma Maria!" followed not long by, "_Entra! Entra! Qui!_" It was a man in an apron ordering to what looked to be his sons, who all practically tripped over the front steps to their home. And of course, there was the classic, "Mamma mia!"

Olivio's voice beckoned over the commotion now, not caring that he had absolutely threw the entire block off kilter.

"You watch! This won't be the last of me you see you little fucker!" His voice seemingly grinded in his throat giving off a sound of demonic possessive, he was surely losing it with rage, continuing, "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO THE _FUCK_ I AM!? EH!?"

His frustration of having lost Cioccolata clear, along with the apparent mixture of feelings he was undergoing, left him to shoot at the air with what was left in the Beretta's chamber. Five more closely filing shots. He didn't take rejection well, let alone being called a faggot, especially from someone he trusted too well.

He looked around the block, surveying the brown and yellow cobblestone. There was no sign of Cioccolata, and it didn't help that he was a bit near sighted. He never had the luxury of an eye exam though, so he was ignorant to his ailment. Despite this, he was able to discern an older man hanging his head out of the two-story window of his beaten down home. He didn't need to be able to locate his eyes to determine that the man had the audacity to be staring at Olivio in his car.

"Ey papà, you think I can't see you up there?! Are you looking to get capped!? How 'bout you mind your own business, eh!?" Olivio hollered.

But the "papà" possessed some balls of his own. He had sandy brown hair, unruly sideburns merging into a goatee.

"This is my business, _sapientone. Who the fuck do you think you are!?" _The man fired back.

"Who AM I, you say?! Did I hear that right!?"

Madness ensued between the two men, and Cioccolata could hardly pay heed to it as he felt a small crook to hide himself between some barrels and the street gutter. He was hardly concerned if anyone could see him, pathetically crouched and smashed into the wood. All self-awareness further left his conscious as he heard another pop and a silence between the previous commotion. Did Olivio…?

Looking through the cracks he was faced with his first thought, as more screaming barreled out over the block. The man that was once arguing with Olivio was now slumped over the windowsill, head hanging limp with his brains adding a charming new paint to the dark orange concrete. Blood dripped from the opening in the man's skull, splattering on the front step.

Seeing was believing, as they say. And after seeing what had just happened, left Cioccolata the evidence to say for certain Olivio was a gangster. Although, it wasn't like he was completely left in the dark on the matter. But Olivio spoke so very little about his "work," thus having previously left the thought out of mind.

He saw Olivio stride back to his vehicle shortly afterward. When he pulled the door shut behind himself, he exploded in a fit of sobs against the steering wheel, but immediately after started the engine. The sobs were unlikely to be a result of the life he took. The last Cioccolata then saw, was the gold Chevy pulling off into dusk along with the screech of tires and someone who was surely going above the speed limit.

As soon as the maniac sped off, a family of nine was heard screaming and sobbing throughout the home of the murdered patriarch.

Uneased wasn't the word for what the boy was feeling, whose concern was only for himself. His chest heaved from the sudden dose of epinephrine shooting through his veins. He was trying to still himself from the incredible rush. He could hardly believe it, but he very well could have died so young. Sweat was tickling along his hairline, the hair itself now hanging in his face, completely fumbled.

He didn't even feel the ground beneath him that he sat upon, his mind was finally calming, and only when it did, did he acknowledge the sensory input all around him. One thought sat in his mind through this near-death experience, and it danced around him until it was fully internalized and absorbed through every fiber of his being. He was…_blessed._

* * *

_._

_Rome, Italy—late July 1980_

Nothing stopped Cioccolata from going to the club. Anybody else, after his experience, might have slinked back to their grand estate home on the outskirts of the city, and bask in the Mediterranean glory of its vineyards and family gentian, peony and white rose bush gardens. In fact, it was almost insane already that Cioccolata did not to do. Instead, his inspiration enlightened him to party harder. It was now only about three weeks since his near-death experience, and now he felt like he had ascended into a type of street god, proving his own budding masculine prowess.

All he could think about was how _blessed _he was, how much happiness he felt to be alive. He was hardly traumatized! Not only that, but he also figured that Olivio was now past him. He heard or saw nothing out of him, despite the man's threat. The rush of all that he was feeling, the grand luck that felt to be gifted to him by the Gods—he made sure the girls he danced with felt it.

A nameless submissive was the one he grinded against, one he had already slept with. Similar to the few others, she was just two years older than him. The slight age difference was disguisable; Cioccolata in fact appeared to be older than them, just as he did in spirit with Olivio. With girls especially, he came across as being a good deal older, and this was heavily attractive for them.

"You're being so…so especially dirty lately, Cioccolata," she whispered in some surprise at him, as he kneaded his fingers into her hips, whilst grinding his pelvis against her behind as they moved. He might as well be fucking her on the dance floor with all that decided intent.

"My break is coming to an end…" he cooed into her ear against the raging synths from the club's speakers.

His hands trailed over the flesh of her exposed belly, until he clipped his grip around her thin waist. He spoke again.

"So, you should give me a treat before I go back." He wasn't nearly as suave as his adult self, but obviously, still quite bold.

"_Should I?" _She teased at his boldness, putting up something of a front of chastity which was obviously a fraudulent one.

He worked on pulling her hips upwards, aiming her to land on his crotch more and feel the poke of his dick between fabrics. She gasped in amazement, as he continued to inveigle her with the erection stored in his off-white trousers.

All this teasing was bound to go somewhere, and it did, when the girl told him that she would use the bathroom first.

"I'll go with you," he hummed with a decided perverted intent.

But she refused the offer, telling him to just wait outside for her. He agreed to this, in exchange for them finding a nice place to stay. With that, they parted ways, one in the direction for the club bathroom, the other exiting the club altogether.

Cioccolata perched himself against the wall in a dark corner, then getting a thrill out of thinking to jump out at her when she reemerged. As a youngster, he was already getting perverted delight out of frightening or shocking others. It seemed to run in his blood. Instead, the next thing he saw shocked _him. _

Something hard and cold was pressed at the back of his head. His mind only shot to one possibility, as the blunt end of the metal seemed to stand completely still. It felt as though he was held by no force whatsoever, magically. His breath left his body, lungs quieting in order to keep him deathly still. His mind lurched ahead; was he about to murdered? Mugged? In the dead of the night like this, in the shadow of this crook which he stood, who would even be able to see?

"Put your hands behind your back," spoke an equally dark voice from behind.

From the line used, one would think it's an officer. But it was anything but that. He knew the voice well.

It belonged to Olivio.

Cioccolata didn't waste as much as a thought on the matter. He knew there was a gun at the back of his head, and he already saw this man a week ago on a near shoot out with it, even having murdered a man out of rage. He wasn't going to put much faith in him. He placed them, at the expense of his pride, behind his back.

"Good…" Olivio breathed as he watched the movement with suspense, seeing the boy's hands come into his vision slowly. He leaned in behind him, and with strong emphasis, enunciated, _"Ragazzo."_

Cioccolata shuddered as the breath hit the small hairs at the entrance of his ear canal. With it, a chill up his spine. He hated the bodily reaction it took on him, making him grind his teeth in contempt, he shook it off, then straightening his back—anything to help him maintain a sense of control in the situation.

The Beretta was eased slowly off the back of his head, where it then relocated to the small of his back. It pressed, urging him forward with a "Move."

Cioccolata saw where to go almost immediately, as his senses picked up and he began looking up and down the streets. Olivio's gold '55 Chevy was seen at the corner of the block, tinted black windows—the only vehicle worth acknowledging in its grandeur.

From here, Olivio stood closely behind Cioccolata, pressing him to walk on. If it weren't for his edgy get up and corpse paint, he would have looked like a CO walking a criminal to the patty wagon. It was around 11:30 PM, but even if this walk of theirs took place in broad daylight, no one would have intervened. In this area, plenty of people recognized Olivio, and they knew what he was about—unlike the gunned down man of the block they were last in.

For Cioccolata, the walk felt like an eternity. The Chevy at the corner however, served as a beacon in his vision, it was about the only thing he could make out with less lamp posts. The parking of his car seemed to be deliberate. His mind wondered what he was going to do next, but soon dropped it; he coped by focusing his mind on each moment.

Even if he did grant his mind the liberty to ponder on Olivio's actions, he assumed that he was simply going to force him to speak with him in his car. At this point in time, he still regarded Olivio as a pussy who only went off on a rampage that time back on account of his broken heart. It was by no means admirable to him nor masculine.

Once he was right in front of the vehicle, Olivio opened the door on the passenger side for Cioccolata, keeping the front sight pressed hard into his cranium. After opening it, he helped lower the boy into the vehicle just as an officer would; overseeing that he would not hit his head at the hood. Cioccolata lowered himself as gracefully as any criminal would. Once planted inside, he leaned his head back against the brown leather seat, keeping his eyes upward to the soft padding of the car's roof, a look of indifference.

Olivio was outside of the car still, likely soon to enter his vehicle, but it was around this time that a sense of unease took young Cioccolata. There was something he sensed, soon after appreciating the familiar smell of his car's air freshener—was it simply the nostalgia of not so long ago, being in his vehicle again?

He slowly turned his head to face the driver's seat, and it was still empty. Really it was no surprise, not even thirty seconds had passed since Olivio placed him in the vehicle, but wouldn't he have been in a rush to enter? Even out the window, he didn't see Olivio. It left him to assume that he was at the trunk, perhaps putting his gun away? Would he do that? As he pondered this, there was a sound, although the sound wasn't of a door opening. It wasn't coming from Olivio at all.

It was coming from the back-passenger seats. It was….! Breathing?

His heart flopped in his chest, almost an audible lub-dub; a pulse that he could feel in his wrist without even being pressed against it. But the fear froze his face to the side, still staring hard into the driver's seat. His eyes were the only things that moved on his body now, and they slid laterally with a slowness that was agonizing to the source of the sound.

The vehicle was shrouded in pitch blackness, but there were unmistakable blotches of full darkness in those back seats; both full. Silhouettes that betrayed the veil of darkness; there was men back there, at least two of them. His throat dried at the thought. If they were people that Olivio knew, which was obviously the case, then these men were also no good. Meaning…they must have been gangsters, as well.

With that, he heard a clear huff, an exhalation of air from one of the humanoid shadows. The airs on his arms stood on end as he heard the scruffy voice of a grown man, speaking very low to another.

"Heh. I think he knows we're back here."

The masculinity in his voice was biting, even at such a low tone, it enveloped the car with its soundwaves. And no doubt on account of Cioccolata's trepidation, the sound of his voice penetrated his mind deeper; he absorbed each syllable.

If this voice wasn't masculine enough, one that sounded even gruffer spoke next, but his voice was reduced to a mere whisper.

"Would you shut the fuck up? You got a big fucking mouth, you know that?"

He heard a slap. The speaker must have slapped the former interlocutor. Two voices. Two men.

Olivio entered the vehicle now, and with that, Cioccolata's head rotated straight ahead. Olivio stared at the boy as he placed his berretta back into his glove compartment. It left Cioccolata to wonder what he did in his trunk after all. But the wondering didn't last long, because soon after, Olivio lifted his arm to the car roof and turned the nightlight on, a dim yellowish haze.

Cioccolata was curious to see the faces of the men behind him, but it was not a strong inquisition as what would have normally taken him. Fear won out, unfortunately, leaving only a dread as to the faces of who could be back there.

Olivio hooked his arm around his own seat, leaned his chin on his wrist, and stared bullets into the boy who sat with the stillness befitting a corpse. His skin was even pale, and Olivio noted it with pride.

"Do you want to introduce yourself to my partners?" Olivio asked with clear sarcasm.

Cioccolata dug in his heels, literally, and chose to say nothing.

After a moment where it was clear there would be no response from the boy, one of the men from the back spoke now—the one who spoke first previously.

"_Huh_, he's rude. Self-entitled prick." He spat.

Olivio said nothing as his smirk faded from his thick black lips. He itched his nose, then looked back to the men.

"Yeah well…looks like he doesn't want to talk right now, _yet. _He's being moody, as usual. So, we'll just get going." He saw from the corner of his eye, a characteristic Olivio flip of the hair.

"Ah you're right," replied the chatty man, "only bitches bleed once a month, after all. Guess it's that time of the month for him? Heheh."

Cioccolata didn't risk looking, he looked straight ahead with chiseled, stone like features; the most stoic a thirteen-year-old could muster, as he heard the engine of the car come to life.

An Italian oldies station came on with the vehicle engine, obviously the last station Olivio had on, for whatever reason. And since this was 1980, the "oldies" playing was from the '30s-'60s. Cioccolata recognized it as the smooth voice belonging to Marisa Sannìa, whom his mother often listened to. As he heard the instrument and tone even just a few seconds longer, he even recognized the song; it was "_Casa Bianca!" _

The man from the back, the voice Cioccolata now heard the most of, spoke again. It was now clear to Cioccolata that this man indeed did have a big mouth, as the other had said.

"Waahhahaa! Olivio must have been givin' _mamma_ a lift earlier to the _salone_, eh?" He jabbed at him. Cioccolata knew, and naturally his own friends must have known very well that this music was poor taste for Olivio.

Olivio shook his head in disgust as he rotated the steering wheel, merely focused on getting himself out of his tight parking.

"None of your business, asshole." Olivio replied as he looked back, but not at the men, but through the rear window and he still focused on pulling them out.

Cioccolata saw then, a shoe kick up against the seat base between the driver's seats; between himself and Olivio. It obviously belonged to one of the men from the back, but with it came a voice that was different from the two he had already acknowledged in his mind. A…third man? There was enough room back there for a third?

"Disregard him. He can't stop talking about your _mamma_ because we all know he wants to bang around with her."

There was an eruption of all their voices now, jumbled together, including Olivio's at this remark. All the men were getting loud like the hooligans that they were, Olivio shouting over the others, one of them, likely the man who made the comment, squealing in laughter, and another clapping.

"_Teribile, terribile!" _He heard one saying, but beyond that, it was a mix of Italian slang and clapping which left most of everything said indistinguishable to him, especially with them all speaking all over each other at a time. Only sometimes could one be heard over the other, such as now.

"You know what, I'm gonna stop the car now. What did I say about that? You know you don't talk about another man's _mamma_ like that. It's disrespectful, you understand that, _I know_." Olivio spoke sternly.

The chatty man that brought up his mother in the first place spoke in heightened defense, "Olivio man, what do you mean!? I didn't even make the comment to disrespect you, this _ritardato _had to take it there! He took it there!"

"I apologize." The other man, the third man that Cioccolata knew nothing of until now, spoke. "I'm sorry, Olivio. There was no harm meant in my words, I was only being truthful with you, from man to man."

Olivio stared at him with his car still paused midway into the street. Luckily no cars were coming down this lane. He then focused his eyes back on the road and shook his head, dismissing it with, "All is well. I don't take the moron seriously anyway." It was clear that Olivio seemed less concerned with the verity of the man's accusation than of the implication of the statement itself.

The chatty man huffed after this, exclaiming, "I wasn't even the one who said it! What the fuck!" He slapped his hand on his thigh, or at least, Cioccolata assumed.

"You didn't deny what I said though, no?" Scoffed the man who initially made the rather vulgar comment.

"_Sufficientemente." _Spoke the voice of the man who Cioccolata heard least of, one of the original two. And with that, he continued, "Keep this up and we will disband for the day. _Today_," he emphasized, "we're not here to bullshit amongst each other; _today_ we're here to bullshit this piece of shit over here," His hand gripped the seat Cioccolata was placed it, giving it a violent spurt of a shake. He further gesticulated, aggressively throwing his wrists out in exasperation with, _"salvalo per dopo!"_

With how the rest of the men quieted down, it was clear that this man had the most authority, and he was, incidentally, the man with the most masculine voice of them all.

Cioccolata dreaded the shift in attention; it reminded him of the loathsome situation he now found himself placed in. Given what the man said, it solidified in his mind what might be happening to him; he assumed that they would beat him up or torture him, or both. The thought made him sink. Would they leave the handcuffs on him so that he couldn't defend himself? It was likely.

And there was silence from there on, but that only lasted for about three minutes. Olivio broke the silence, addressing the chatty man, he spoke.

"So, I was looking through my cassettes last night and I saw that you left your Floyd one in my pile."

The man piped up right away, seemingly happy to break the silence. "And I bet I know which one it is—it's Animals, isn't it?"

"That's the one," Olivio confirmed.

During this time, the foot placed at the seat base never moved. It was constantly in Cioccolata's vision, and it only served to heighten his anxiety. He figured that it belonged to the man who made the vulgar comment regarding the chatty man's interest in Olivio's mother. It again made him wonder how three men could fit back there? Were they all smashed together?

On que to his wondering, it did appear that the men were smashed back there, as the chatty man made a complaint.

"_Dannazione—Mamma mia! _Are you _ever _gonna move your arm, man!?"

The voice of the man who originally made the vulgar comment, replied.

"How about you move your ass and then I'll think about it. Your hip is digging into me; you're killing me!"

Some more dialogue between the men ensued, and it sounded like it was getting a bit rowdy again. The prior warning was obviously for nothing as more havoc ensued. These two were obviously a couple of wise guys. But at this point, Cioccolata began tuning them out. He heard a change in music, presumably the Pink Floyd album they were discussing, but it went in one ear and out the other, for now.

His mind started to find other things to think about other than where he was now. Naturally, one's mind would be on escape, but he knew that, at least right now, was out of the question. Not only were the doors locked, he was sure, but with a moving vehicle and his hands cuffed behind him, trying to get out of the vehicle would be suicide.

He briefly thought about the girl he left behind at the club and got a bit pissed off. Not because he cared that she would think that he stood her up, but because he wondered if she had come out sooner, would he be in this situation? He might have been able to convince Olivio to take her and let his friends pass her around for entertainment instead. She was a whore, after all.

It was a possibility…yet something told him it wouldn't have worked. Olivio clearly wanted to punish him, he certainly of all people, wasn't going to settle for a girl to get his rocks off. But these other men? Well, they sounded like the types. He rotated his eyes slightly to stare at the man he thought of with apathy, and finally was back into reality from the brief mental digression.

"—_Probably_ the only one you'll be able to listen to, this song is long, anyway."

"Well we're gonna have to drive back so we'll listen to the rest later, eh? Anyway, "Dogs" is the best song! Don't you think it perfectly describes our business? Well uh, first verse… heehee." The man continued to chuckle, but it was an ugly one. Cioccolata wondered if this chatty man looked as repulsive as he sounded.

There was some more banter between Olivio and this unknown chatty man, but beyond that, the other two men were silent, and soon enough, all talking died off. Cioccolata at this time was forced not only to absorb the dark streets and alleys the lights of the Chevy hit, but to listen intently to the music. These two things now were the only stimuli he had to distract himself from any further thoughts of what would be done with him. Especially considering his final thought was wondering if they were perhaps, planning on killing him.

It was mostly guitar rifts he heard now from the psychedelic rock from the car's sound system, and some singing in between. Strangely enough, the lyrics that he just now finally began paying attention to, struck him as rather eerie considering his situation.

"_And when you lose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sown…  
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone."_

_Was that really…?_ His mind trailed off as it felt that his breath left him. But the next verses struck him harder.

"_And it's too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around.  
So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone—  
Dragged down by the stone."_

By now, it did indeed feel as though his breath left him, and his uneasiness grew as the last word of the music was dragged off into echoing, metaphorically mirroring the echoing of his own thoughts in his mind. What little hope he did have of escape began to fade with those said echoes, as the song drifted into dogs barking and apparent whistling.

He was so tuned out to all this, that he didn't even hear one the movements of one of the men close behind him until it was too late. Right behind his ear, he was in for a shock.

"_AWOO-WOOWOOWWO! AWOOOO!" _

Cioccolata jumped somewhat from the shock, really an automatic response to save his eardrum rather than fear—but the reaction was still, no doubt noted by the men. Knowing this, it served only to humiliate him more.

The car was silent still beyond this, yet there was some ruffling in the back seat between the men, and a faint, but still audible snickering, likely from the chatty man. Although he didn't know which man did this, he assumed it to be that man. From what he gathered of his personality during this ride, he definitely seemed like the type. He balled his fists behind his back against the leather seat, the only sense of power he had remaining.

He heard the whisper of one of the other men, then teasingly reprimand him, "You're an _asshole._"

"No, no, no, no. I'm just reminding the boy of what he is!" he said in gest.

With that, Cioccolata fell off into the song again, focusing on that yet again than his own morbid thoughts. The wait for the drive was agonizing enough, he almost wished they would just get where they needed to go and get it over with. But instead of the song giving him any type of comfort, it instead only aided his well-maintained mental terror. Toward the end of the song especially, its building musical intensity as well as the vocals, especially those regarding death, seemed to strike him profound.

His discomfort was so much that, if it were any other time, a situation which had no semblance to the current one—he would have told Olivio to turn it off. But obviously…times have certainly changed incredibly fast. It was obvious to him that those days would never be again, not that he wanted them.

When finally the song had ended and it seemed they were soon after pulling into a set location, Cioccolata didn't know whether to be relieved or not. In truth, he couldn't see much of what was ahead of him. Given the drive, it must have been at the earliest quarter of twelve. But what was clear to him in the gloom of the night was that wherever Olivio was pulling into now was clearly ran down and overgrown. He shivered in response of the implications of the seclusion of the area.

The bump of the car pulling into the hill left Cioccolata struggling for balance in his seat. His temple smashed into the window beside him, imparting its throbbing kiss. Of course, Olivio did not bother putting the seat belt on him, nor extending any courtesy at all to him in the slightest. He was treated like a criminal now being brought into custody; no concern for his human rights. As if breaking even the most minor societal law gave other men the right to treat another with inequity. Clearly, equality through the film of law and order sired inequality; as Nature knows no such thing as universal equality of man.

There was no paving at all in this area, and the deepening darkness as they rolled through made it clear to the boy that the added shade was due to an abundance in trees. He wondered if they either planned to kill him right in this car once they parked, or lynch him? Was what went on between him and Olivio _really _worth all the trouble though? It wasn't like Cioccolata himself was even involved with any of their…business. Still, he had obviously disrespected Olivio greatly, and now he was forced to face the ramifications.

His ignorance was forgivable however, he was an outsider. A rich boy from a small borough on the outskirts of Rome. What could he possibly know of gangsters? He had no way of gauging the men, and it maddened him. It further made him regret ever being involved with Olivio, and at this moment, he almost felt like kicking himself for his curiosity and where it had now led him.

But the more he wondered if death was really where he was headed, the more hope, paradoxically, began to fill him. In light of his ignorance, he pondered if they were really just trying to scare him, teach him a lesson befitting a lad. A cold sweat began to break over his frontal as he felt the car lurch to a stop and his torso pressed forward just a bit from the drop. He planted his feet harder into the floor, and the strength of his ankles enabled him to resist being thrown forward too much.

There was silence amongst all, except for the hum of the engine. Olivio did not turn it off yet…what was he waiting for?

The answer to that question became clear, Olivio spoke, a smirk evident in his tone.

"So, you feel like talking now? Are you going to introduce yourself to _mi famiglia?" _

Was it a question worth answering? Should he look behind him, at the men? Or should he look at Olivio? The doom in the choices left Cioccolata to resort to the latter.

He slowly turned his face to Olivio, and though he tried to keep his expression as stoic as all possible, his eyes may have understandably betrayed him. The acuity of the situation left the boy floating in a surreal sense of reality, no—nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He never thought that he would long to be home, given how much he hated it along with his father. Despite this, he felt that he might have preferred the beatings by him to this humiliation.

And yet…he also had no idea how much worse it would get.

Cioccolata risked staring Olivio in his now musty brown eyes, surrounded by the usual black and blue makeup. Except there was nothing beyond the man's iris'. The polarity was striking, there was nothing friendly or wholesome in his eyes like he had seen before. As if an invisible switch was pulled, Olivio's eyes now even looked to belong to a seasoned gangster. In fact, Olivio stared now at the boy just as Cioccolata last stared at him within this very vehicle, in the same spots. The tables have very literally been turned, and with it, Cioccolata knew he wasn't going to be treated as if they were once intimate nor familiar. His metaphoric lifeline was cut.

As the sense of reality from the man's eyes hit him harder, his senses became more acute than ever before. He became aware of the breathing of the three men in the back, almost in unison. He knew they were closer now, all three leaned forward in their seats as if in morbid anticipation.

Cioccolata could hardly risk testing his vocal cords in the mute atmosphere, not sure if all the silence from him in the past twenty-five minutes would serve to break his pubescent voice.

His eyes trailed down Olivio's face, coated with white make up, but it wasn't to admire the face of one who was once his intimate friend. It was the descent and bowing of one's eyes synonymous with defeat.

Olivio tipped his head in gratitude; Cioccolata's apparent shame—_already—_filled him with triumph. He felt that he was finally giving Cioccolata a piece of him, letting him feel the despair he had felt for him just three weeks ago. But this was only the beginning. He spoke again, quieter than ever, sounding almost friendly.

"You know, instead of staring at me, you ought of look at them finally. You're about to get to know them better than you _ever _knew me, after all…"

Cioccolata's heart hammered at the final remark. _Better_ than…Olivio…?

The build up of saliva in his mouth left him with dread at the thought of swallowing it all. He felt the men were close enough to see him visibly gulp it down. Despite his fear, he needed to be able to put together the voices he heard so much to the faces, if that could even be guessed…

Did he imagine warm breath on him? Were they really that close? He assumed he was imagining things, and finally, it left him with the courage to look into the eyes of Fate.

Upon the flexion of his neck, Cioccolata was faced with the expressions of the three men, all staring at him in perfect synchronicity. Not even one foot away, they were all fixed upon the boy with eyes belonging to wolves than of men. Each man had long dark hair, two with a length reaching about an inch past their clavicle, another whose only came down his neck; relatively short.

They at first wore expressions of a deadly primordial masculinity, their lizard like lips in a deep scowl. But once observing the boy's face, and undoubtedly—his green eyes—full on, the furrowed brows reversed themselves.

Bestial smirks grew over the two's brachiocephalic features, while the third man wore a more experienced, crooked smile. His head was tilted at the boy, as if in fascination. His eyes were stone gray, dark and brooding, while the other two's men were shit brown. Their complexions were as ruddy as a Moroccan's, while the gray eyed man's was more fitting to a classical Roman. His cranial and facial bone structure was not unlike most Italian men's. A broad jaw, a subtle frontal preceded by a stern T-zone. Deep set eyes that were positioned closer rather than further apart, long thin lips, and a charming Roman hooked nose.

The appearance amongst the rest begged authority, but this wasn't the only reason Cioccolata took him to be the man he assumed had the most authority; the one who made the threat against him. It was because of the face paint applied to his already daunting features. Unlike Olivio's corpse paint, this man's didn't seem to derive from a musical influence. Which meant that its application was not for petty show, it was likely followed by reason and effect.

One thick, long streak of ocean blue stretched vertically from his frontal to his mental, coloring the bridge and arch of his nose. The two men beside him also wore complimentary face paint, the same shade of blue running horizontally across their eyes, trailing off at each temple.

In combining their features, his mind could only connect one thing. If all their faces were overlaid upon the other…one tall, perpendicular line followed by the two uplifted parallel…

It didn't make a plus sign. The arms were not placed right in the middle, completely even. The paint ran over the men's brown eyes. Without a doubt, whether it was meant to be ironical, comical, or both; they formed a blue cross.

**.**


	6. Chapter 6

_I seek the dying, sick and deformed_

_All who would taint the species._

_Stabbing and choking and burning and drowning_

_Exterminate subhuman feces._

_Man has bred his ancestors_

_A sort of human pollution._

_To every problem an answer must lie—_

_To this, I have a solution!_

_Crush, kill, destroy! ~Thermonuclear Warrior, Carnivore_

* * *

**Capitolo VI: **

_-Dallo schiavo al padrone: terza fase-_

"Heh. Just look at his face. Looks like this isn't your lucky day."

The remark came from the man seated between the two. It came as a shock for young Cioccolata to hear. Was he not putting his best face forward in the face of adversity?

It was an awkward stare, to be sure. It ruffled the boy at the soul level. The men before him seemed to take pleasure in keeping it going, however. Gray, and two pairs of deep, brown-black eyes…they carved themselves in his memory for an eternity it seemed, yet nothing truly traumatic enough, severely worth remembering occurred.

If he had taken the opportunity to break the eye contact, which anyone else with far less balls than him would have, would he have saved himself some foul memories? Would it be lessened by much? Or was pride and bravado more important? It wasn't thoughts he paid heed to in the moment. His stare remained on theirs like invisible glue, becoming increasing dogged by the second.

"Alright, let's just get on with it. It's too cramped in here, it's hot." Spoke the clear leader, the gray eyed man with the vertical face paint.

And he wasn't lying. Though it was another cool summer night, having five people stuffed into one vehicle was producing more heat than what anyone needed.

The eye contact was officially broken, the other two looked to the car door, to which the man on the outer end swung open, responding with, "No need to tell me twice!"

Some more dialogue and clowning ensued between all the men after they all slide from the leather seats, while Ciccolata, still seated beside Olivio at the front of the car—sat with an expression befitting of a fish out of water.

He felt his clothes now clinging to his body with sweat, his eyes were downcast, relieving themselves of some pressure. For a moment, he let them close, but no amount of visual rest would prepare him for this night, and he knew that much. When his lids opened again, he fixed them on Olivio's hands pulling the cassette from the sound system. He watched only them place the cassette back into its case gingerly, while also searching through his pile. He seemed to be multi-tasking just a bit, as he also went about using another cassette tape to roll a blunt on as if it was done out of habit.

He seemed absorbed into what he was doing, yet with just them, it gave Cioccolata more of the courage to speak. He had a feeling he might not see much of Olivio after all this…especially if his worst fears were realized.

"…What are they going to do to me?" He mumbled wryly.

It seemed as though Olivio wasn't going to say anything at all, but perhaps the zeal was too great for him. He couldn't go without speaking.

"Don't you like surprises?" he replied in a clearly wise tone of voice.

Cioccolata knew not a proper response, so he favored silence over words. And still, he felt the hatred consume him, and indeed, perhaps this blood-boiling feeling would remerge. Even so, he didn't want to miss his opportunity, he saw it then, so he took it.

"I _hate_ you. I want to _kill you._" He seethed with a clenched jaw, grinded teeth.

"Hmm." Olivio mumbled as he successfully constructed his blunt. He raised it to his nose, taking a long whiff of the marijuana. His reply was less of an acknowledgment of the boy and more of a dismissal. But before he lit the makeshift smoke between his fingers, he remarked again, "I like that. You can try that one day, if you _want to_, that is. If you've got the stones to come back to the city…after what the boys will be doing to you."

It was clearly meant to mock the boy. He didn't think he had it in him in the slightest, nor did he seem to care or fancy that he just might. He saw him as a creature in the moment, a boy still, not yet a man, not even an official teen.

He looked at him then, the hatred burning into his irises. Olivio met the case with complete antipathy; seeming more concerned with how he lit his blunt than the boy's rage. He blew out the smoke from his first hit, then lingered his gaze over the boy who was once the object of his perverse attraction, before he let it fall, trailing over his body.

Regardless of how much resolve he had gartered for this moment, he couldn't help but long for what might have been. He truly did want to see what this Cioccolata would look like, would be as a man. But, you had to roll with the punches in life, as they say. And it simply looked as though that just wasn't going to be…

Cioccolata's thoughts were understandably much different in this moment. He was unable to speak now, already having a hard-enough time managing his posture and body language to keep from shaking due to the anger. He hoped that the promise was in his eyes—the oath to indeed take Olivio's life one day. But he knew not if the goal was realistic, was unable to know how he would be able to track him. Even now, logic and clear plan did not fail him. Cioccolata was simply never the type to calculate and make any promises which were not backed by data of any kind.

But Olivio revealed one thing that was telling to the boy. He seemed to imply, at the very least, that they would not murder him. Even so, given the type of crowd that they were, a question would be better spent asking if death would be more desirable. How much suffering did Olivio truly wish to impart on Cioccolata?

Just because it was the better question, did not mean that fate wished to help him find the answer. The car door opened just then to his side, and he was soon ripped from the vehicle, apprehended by the cuffs on his wrist. Cioccolata saw that it was the man with the neck length hair. He peeped the entirety of his frame at the moment he had opened the car door. He was somewhat tall, or at least appeared to be given his wiry limbs. He wore a black and red jumpsuit, the color arrangements made up in patches; the hems at the ankle and wrists red, black filling in the majority of the material.

As of now, there was no way to place the voice upon any of these men, not until he heard them speak. But he was sure he would know soon enough.

The man, while holding a grip on Cioccolata, now addressed Olivio directly. It was just some more bullshit and horseplay, and with it, from the tone of his voice, he ascertained this man was the "chatty" one. But his mind felt overloaded, for while this fact was still absorbing in his mind, he could see one of the other men looking through the trunk. He remembered that was where Olivio spent some time at after abducting him, or at least, he had assumed.

He stared at the man, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he could be getting from back there, anything to give him a hint of his fate… but he found himself, not long later, being forced to walk once again. His legs moved with the reluctance of jelly toward its destination: a generously sized shed, resembling the few located on his home estate…yet not as modest. Despite the promise of more space it seemed to offer, judging from the structure, it did appear to be in shambles.

The wooden door was left ajar, so Cioccolata was ushered through. Coming in, he saw it was indeed quite specious, but quite literally, absolutely nothing to it. Random pieces of furniture were placed from one corner of the room to the other; it was clear this place was frequented, presumably by these men. There was a slopped-up end table positioned toward the right lateral portion of the room, and a murky red couch behind it, pressed up against the gray scale, brick walls.

The entirety of the shed was unnerving, to say the least. The men clearly saw to tidy it up somewhat, make it look a bit homier, but it was a failed attempt when considering the stone and earthiness beneath his feet. There was one large rug placed under the end table, another half assed attempt of bandaging the room's lack of appeal. Wine bottles, those empty and full lined the end table, along with some strewn about underneath.

The worst part of the room was not its aesthetics so much as its stench. A musty, stagnant smell that was a characteristic of mold, revealed to the boy that it made a good home for fungal growth.

But the smell left his mind, as he was pressed forward more into the dark room, lit only by a yellowish overhanging lamp. The shed was clearly very old fashioned, even given the melding of the door, appearing to resemble a classic cottage frame. He had heard it close behind him, the sounds of bolts being pressed forward, yet he saw not who did so. Who he did see however, was the stern gaze of their leader, seated at the couch. Both sides were two worn, black loveseats; especially shabby in comparison.

He was directed to that very couch, which he saw was wider than he had originally thought. He was placed at the outer edge, to which the grip of the other man was finally relinquished.

The two men took their seats at either side, on the loveseats, adjusting themselves with looks of smug accomplishment.

The seat arrangement began to feel much like a sentence; in no way did he feel comforted being seated on the same piece of furniture with the most daunting man of the three—even if they were both on opposite ends.

Risking a better glance at him, he could see that he was dressed the most formally of the two men, the other, quieter one, in more of a laid-back attire. Their boss wore a dark corduroy vest over a vertically striped blouse. The vest was unbuttoned. His trousers weren't matching the rest, yet stylish. Each pant leg was mismatched as well; the right leg navy blue, the left having blue and yellow plaid patchwork. Supposing that it didn't matter what you wore as a gangster, the attire was pleasing whilst portraying befitting authority.

He leaned forward now, examining the wine on the table, holding it up to the dim light.

"How long was this in the trunk?" He inquired.

The man closest to him, the relatively reserved one, spoke. "He said he got it after he drove his _mamma _home, so no more than an hour and a half."

"Ohohoho? So I was right?" sinister giggles followed after the chatty man's inquisition.

The other man ignored him, the comment being extraneous to him, and spoke over his laughter, "I can't believe he didn't _even leave_ anything for us to eat." He commented with clear exasperation, continuing, "I _suppose_ he already had eaten before meeting today, but…where's the excuse in that? He has none!"

"Oh, I was thinking the same. It's absolutely devastating of him to do so. But I…have an idea of how it could have possibly slipped his mind…" The head mafioso replied, trailing off as he searched the cluttered glass table, presumably for a wine opener. Once finding it, he got to the task at hand. The pop that followed almost made Cioccolata jump in response; demonstrating to him just how badly his nerves were shot.

"_Introduzioni._" He laid flat in the air as he poured the wine into four short glasses.

The man closest to him spoke first, not even three seconds after his Boss made the statement. "_Chia._"

Then came the chatty man in a sneer, "_Pepe._"

In the order for which they spoke, it would seem like next would come Cioccolata, but it skipped over him to the head mafioso, who announced, "_Lino." _

Cioccolata immediately reflected on the absurdity of the given names. They were hardly forenames, but he reasoned quickly that he understood why they kept such names. Given who they were and the business they dealt in, they were clearly aliases. Without a doubt, the same applied with Olivio.

The men wasted no time with their drinks. Cioccolata began to understand that the fourth glass may have been for the absent Olivio, given the fact that he himself was still handcuffed—the offering seemed unfitting.

The boss spoke once more, though not addressing the thought on the boy's mind, "Don't bother introducing yourself; we already know yours. A fine Latin name. I scorn whoever decided upon that name for you."

Cioccolata narrowed his eyes to his lap, not letting them see his expression. It was his mother.

The head mafioso changed the subject. "This place doesn't look familiar to you, does it?"

What was this, a trick question? What was he supposed to say?

"It's okay. I want you to talk, see. I want to know if Olivio ever took you here before." He poured another glass of the wine now, and once concluded, nonchalantly pressed it closer to the boy's side with an audible scratch on the glass. Honestly, they could have saved themselves the trouble with the implementation of the coasters; the table was already scratched and slopped beyond redemption.

"So have a swig of some of that, and let's just have a conversation."

Before he could wonder how he would drink it, Pepe rustled in his pocket, then removed the cuffs from the boy's wrist. Freedom never felt so good for young Cioccolata, feeling life figuratively revive the limbs. He had the urge to stretch them yet fought it. Considering how much anxiety he had, the most he had ever had in his life, he wasn't so comfortable with such a gesture.

But what the fuck was this man on about? Were they trying to shit him? Was he an idiot, truly? Did they _really_ just bring him here to interrogate him on whether or not Olivio brought him here before? He resolved in taking the glass that he was offered, if anything, it would help ease some anxiety. It's not like it were poisoned…

"You're probably wondering why I'm asking you this question. And that's fine, you're smart. But I'm curious you may say. I've only allowed Olivio to take you here on this one occasion since I am sure you won't be wandering around this city anytime soon. This is a personal retreat, for the _famiglia_ only. With that said, if you tell me that Olivio has taken you here…" He trailed off, rolling his eyes to the ceiling with an exasperated click on his tongue. "I don't know…I don't know…" he repeated, then continued, "Maybe to, uh, fuck you over on that mattress over there or something…Well, I'm not going to be happy. We can just say that."

Now he took a swig of his own glass, speaking again, "Don't think that we have no grace, choosing a place like this as a retreat. This is where we take assholes like you that need to be taught _il codice." _

There was silence followed, broken only by a snicker from Pepe. Cioccolata, in this moment, favored compliance if it meant it would halt what the man was saying, his final words giving the boy a chill. He didn't want to know what _il codice _entailed. Not only that, but he was already incredibly unnerved with two other men who felt to be breathing down his neck, though the other, Chia—was not nearly as close to him as Pepe.

"He never took me here. I haven't seen it before," he tried. Afterward, he put his glass back on the coaster. For some reason, the bittersweet taste could not appeal to him at this moment, perhaps because it felt too symbolic of his current emotions.

"I take it." He said simply, looking to the other two men, continuing, "There'd be no reason for you defend Olivio's honor considering you're here with us because of him. I take what you say. _Grazie." _

Some more silence followed, and Cioccolata began to finally notice the dull ache in his arms from being held in the same position for such a prolonged period. The lead mafioso, Lino, spoke again.

"I'm happy to have validation on Olivio's loyalty. It's a very important tenant in our organization, and I've found Olivio to be precious to me in that regard. Really, that's why I love him, so very much."

"Pffffft, _Oliviooo, Oliviooo, my precious—" _spoke Pepe, a clear tease.

The speaker raised his hand in dismissal to him, "Be still now. Shut it."

His mouth shut instantly, rendering him as a pathetic dickhead in this remark.

He snapped his fingers now at Cioccolata, whose eyes trailed off at the diversion.

"Hey! Don't mind him. I don't even know why he's still breathing with all that talking he does. But despite how I may look, I'm actually so very tolerant and sympathetic."

He cleared his throat now, seeming to test the silence before he attempted speech again. Once resuming, his voice returned to his gentle tone.

"Before I was rudely interrupted…Yes. I love Olivio, he's like a son to me, especially him. So when he told me about the bad blood between you two, I was more than happy to carry out his taste of revenge on you. And I want you to know something; I demanded he tell me all the details of your relationship with him. I wanted to know the details of how you two met, and I also wanted to know what type of punk you were before I would have this opportunity to meet you. _And_ he told me everything that you have ever told him."

Cioccolata's heart sank at the notion of such an idea. _Everything_…it felt almost like an exploit, knowing that such things were told to a stranger. It seemed that the mafioso's speech would go on until he was finished his glass, which was nearing its end, almost as if he had this recited, or at least planned.

"Extreme though it may sound, in my mind, hearing you disrespect him as you did, I felt that _I _was disrespected. I resolved that there should be no reason a maggot like you be left alive."

It felt as though the boy's breathing almost froze at the end of his sentence. It appeared that he was right to believe that he may be killed. His mind leapt into a frenzy at the thought. Did Olivio just give him that bit false hope only to let it be crushed in here? To die in this musty, disgusting room was…Is that why Olivio did not accompany them here, and remained in his car? It made some sense now. He didn't want to see it…this was a hit.

Sweat trickled at his brow. Why drag this out with all the talking then? Did they just all have sadistic delight in doing so to whoever they killed, hoping for a profound effect?

Just then, Pepe was hunched down, staring into his face, bringing him back to the moment. Looking into his eyes, he saw humor which revealed itself when the man began his ugly, distinguishing snicker. He was obviously searching for his Boss' effect in the boy's features; having found it, he delighted in the inside joke.

His eyes darted to the other man beside Lino, and saw that he too, was smirking. When the snickering died down, the mafioso spoke again, but it seemed like he was somewhat seething, he gripped his glass.

"There was one thing you said to him which stood out to me, because you were dead wrong in saying it…You had the audacity to tell him that he would never be accepted, but you didn't realize that here, with me, he is accepted. I will admit, I don't exactly share his same fondness for young boys, but whatever types of trouble he may get into as a result of his appetite, we will have his back." There was some silence after this, but he continued, "…This is where we begin to taper off on our conversation then."

He laid his empty glass back down on the coaster at the table, he spread his legs far apart, somewhat straightened his posture. Cioccolata's heart dropped.

"_Pepe_, check him," he barked sternly.

There was no time for the boy to try to understand his order to the man, because its meaning was laid out flat before him at the introduction of Pepe's fist smashing into his jaw.

One, two three. He was only able to count how many punches landed on his face because of the fact that each time they came, his vision flashed to black.

Cioccolata must have been thrown into the couch now, he kept his eyes shut after the impacts, feeling the pain still absorbing throughout his temple. Chia spoke now.

"Now come on, _you know_ you were only supposed to punch him one time."

"Two more is good for him, I'd say," Pepe giggled as if he knew that he had gotten away with something taboo.

Young Cioccolata cracked open his eyes then, narrowing them in the direction of Pepe. It was now especially, that he felt that he would hate this man most. His eyes were full of hatred, fully evaluating the man, who even looked as disgusting as he sounded. Everything he had already seen of him was obnoxious, he took great pleasure in humiliating him…he even seemed immature. The latter was something the precocious Cioccolata could not relate with.

The boss spoke next. "I _did_ say to punch him once. The shit I put up with…" he sighed.

The mafioso stood up from the couch now. He looked down at the boy as if he were trash, and indeed, he truly believed that he was. His loathing toward Cioccolata could not even be exaggerated.

To Cioccolata's dread, Pepe walked toward him in apparent excitement. He took the boy by the arms again and swung him to his feet. He laughed while doing so, as if it was so fun for a man to experience such power over another; but it was just the case for him.

"Come on-come on-come on! Move it! Go-go-go!" He leered as he roughly pressed the boy on toward the mattress. Cioccolata had a bad feeling about being placed on there. He didn't want to think… he stopped himself. They were going to kill him. That was what their leader implied…so…

He was smashed face down into the cheap mattress, his temple landing hard on a spring superficial to the surface. He cursed in his mind at the unlucky impact, grinding his teeth at the reignited pain. He didn't think he had any broken bones, but his face was on fire.

"Oh look, his face is swelling up already. You really got him good," spoke Chia to Pepe.

He heard these words, but he had no room in his mind to absorb them fully. He placed his hand on his temple instinctively over the spot where he felt to be the origin of most of his pain. He internally gasped when he felt a large lump under his palm. He traced his fingers around the swelling, horror building knowing that it was on his face.

He didn't have much time to trace it any longer. His arms were being subdued yet again, this time, with rope.

He looked behind his shoulder blade, only to see it was Pepe tying the rope around his torso and twisting his arms behind his back. It was at this time that the life suddenly sprang into Cioccolata, despite knowing that the door to this place was bolted closed, that not only was there a man in the middle of tying him, but another one right by his side, and other one standing not far behind them. Resisting truly had no purpose, yet the boy did so anyway.

"Ah. So _now_ he fights. I was waiting for it," he remarked on the struggling boy's limbs with a sick smile on his face.

Chia looked from behind him, also taking on a look of pleasure. He smiled deeply, then aided the man in binding the boy. Despite both men, Cioccolata was still much trouble with his kicking, and when he made the mistake of hitting a little too close to Chia's crotch, he was set into a world of pain once again. The man butted the point of his elbow into the boy's spine, further subduing him.

He screamed into the mattress at the impact, tears without his awareness, springing into his eyes. With the activation of his sympathetic nervous system, came the ability to breath more deeply than ever; forcing him to acknowledge the smell of mildew encompassing the earthen room. Instead of helping him, it seemed to hinder him, as everything in him which was primal hit him with an acuity which only rewarded him with agony in the hopeless situation.

His struggle did little else than give the men more reason to harshly throw his limbs around as if he were nothing more than a bag of bones. Pepe was on his knees on the mattress over him, and he moved to place the weight of his shin over the boy's calves. Chia came around to the other end, at his head, waiting for Pepe to finish his binding.

All too tight by design, Cioccolata found his airways suddenly restricted, despite how badly his lungs vied for air. When they yanked his arms higher upon his back, the restriction grew worse. If that wasn't already bad enough, Chia thrashed the boy now onto his back, and he saw now why the man was waiting above him there. He had a thick, off white rag which he used in an attempt to wrap around the boy's mouth.

But Cioccolata wasn't parting with his resistance even now, the despair in knowing he would die would not allow him to go easy. It was the nature of all humans to fight even the hopeless, to struggle against even the blade when submerged into their breast.

It left him with little pride anymore. He knew once he was gagged, whatever they were going to do to him was going to begin. And from there, it would be all over for him.

"STOP! STOP! Stop it! I don't—I DON'T want to die!"

"Wah! Wah! I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die! Mamma! Where's my mamma?! Hahaha!" Pepe fell off his teasing into a maniacal cackle, "I fucked your mamma, that's why you can't find her!" He concluded with more laughter.

Chia now started laughing with him (for once) and resumed his work in gagging the boy. But still, the trouble continued. Now Cioccolata snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack, moaning pitiful sobs in his throat as terror overtook him. After all this time he spent trying to keep his cool, trying to remain tough and stoic, he finally broke.

"Open your fucking mouth, brat." Chia ordered.

Cioccolata's only response was a more exasperated sob from deep within his chest, but he made no indication that he would open his mouth. His eyes looked up at Chia, and he was forced to appreciate the fact that the man had apparently made his attire more comfortable than before; his brown, button down shirt was open completely. His eyes settled on the trail of body hair disappearing behind the man's belt, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt something tug at his crotch, and the audible sound of something unzipping, and he knew right away what it was.

He looked down suddenly and saw the horror at what Pepe was doing. He was unzipping the boy's pants and proceeding to pull them off. And that was all he needed to see, before his screaming began.

When it did, Chia took the opportunity, grateful that Pepe's course of action was synchronous with his own. He quickly wrapped the cloth around the boy's mouth, slamming the back of head into the spring as a way to capitalize even more off the child's screaming. But something happened which he did not anticipate. In throwing his head back into the mattress, it brought the screaming Cioccolata's mandible to elevate upon impact, in effect, chomping down on the man's hand.

"Augh! You fuck-face!" Now Chia landed one solid hook into the boy's eye socket.

In the midst of the blackness that followed, the battered boy happened to catch a glimpse of their leader, Lino. His senses so heightened by panic, it was hard to pay the man any mind, only but to stare at him in horror and desperation. Seemingly without an effect, the man stared back, at first expressionless, before his lips curled into a smile. He enjoyed it.

To be watched like that, it drove the terror in his gut deeper with profound humiliation; attacking him viscerally with a grand slam. He began feeling faint then, as his mind even attempted to fixate on it, but he was driven back to his senses when feeling that damp air over his exposed flesh. He didn't want to look down however, didn't want to be humiliated more than he already was.

Chia tossed the rag on the bed in frustration, saying that he'll just get tape instead. But Pepe stopped him.

"No, I got a better idea, really…we're going to treat him like a bitch, _a dog_…remember?"

It was here where the point reached that Cioccolata's mind began drifting. And it was true enough, even in his adult life, he did not think far beyond this moment if he could help it. The men's struggling to gag him and exposing him to them against his will—this all seemed to be the prelude to the end.

He heard the men's voices, yet it was as if they were not even there. All he could feel was his own emotional pain, the physical, and the unending fear; the desperate beat of his heart waiting for when it would all end, slowly but surely giving into to its fate.

He felt weightless, as if on a cloud. He would have thought the whole mattress was lifting, drifting away with him aboard. Perhaps it was leaving entirely, like a magic carpet in a cartoon he had seen in his early childhood. He only knew that, proven by this experience, feelings were a detriment to an individual. If there was a way he could find that they may be turned off, he would do so without any hesitation. Whatever it took, it would be worth it.

Soon enough he realized, however, that the fantasy of a flying carpet that which would save him from his doom was itself, drifting back into the delusion from which it came. It was only his own body which was lifting, turning; no hypothetical rug but by the hands of his perpetrators.

He was carelessly smashed facedown once more, strained shoulder blades trying to accommodate with the force which held them, but to no avail. Knowing he was naked from the waist down sent his mind back into a frenzy. To be exposed from the front was bad enough, but from the back left him with a trepidation which was natural for any male to feel.

His dread was validated when he felt a hard slap on his ass then from Pepe, who he knew to be directly behind him. His hand lingered over the meat, gripping it in his palms like it was the man's possession.

"So a little birdie, I'm sure you _couldn't_ guess who, told me that you like roleplaying as a girl while you're getting fucked, that right? Well, I can definitely get with that…because I normally only fuck girls." His hands roamed the boy's behind still, but seemingly with more enthusiasm. He added now, "Hmm…and you've got a nice ass on you to really picture that too…"

Cioccolata's stomach made a flip in response to the deliberate molestation; a strong clench at the gut level that left his head feeling faint all over again. _He wasn't…He couldn't…_

He felt his face being lifted from the mattress now, it was Chia doing so, his calloused fingers clawed through the boy's widow's peak. Being forced to see him now, he was left with a sight he had _no _way to prepare for.

His dick was right in his face, mere centimeters apart. Cioccolata gasped again, squeezing his eyes shut at the sight. The reality hit him now like a train, they were going to rape him before they killed him. If his body was ever found, then they'd know what happened to him…the thought sickened him.

…For a young boy especially, this was an emasculating notion.

"So let's hear it, eh? I want to hear you scream like a little girl like Olivio said you did."

His cheeks were spreading apart, he tried moving his leg up in resistance, but it seemed to only encourage the man above him more, and instead used it to his advantage. Cioccolata had without his awareness aided to this lazy position he was in, just laying on his stomach, in doing so. Now the man's own legs spread them apart more, and he felt his hardened girth hugging the crack of his ass.

"No no nonon nonono!" He cried almost incoherently at this point, choking on the moldy air that seemed to fill itself and make a home out of his lungs.

But Chia put an end to his sobs now. The boy's eyes flew open when he heard a flick of metal. It sounded as though it could have been right next to his ear, yet it was possible that it only sounded as such due to Cioccolata's heightened awareness in what felt to be a life-or-death situation. When his eyes fixed on the source of the noise, he saw that it was a square edged switch blade with a black and red hilt.

The man used no words, at least for now, to drive his message across. He pulled Cioccolata's face closer to semi erect length, keeping the threat of the blade close to the boy's face, but right before his lips touched Chia's genitalia, he halted the progress to speak.

"If you bite me again, especially _there_, I guarantee you that you'll be losing one of those green eyes," He threatened with a hiss.

Cioccolata couldn't even reply to it, for in the next moment, he felt a dull pain seeping into him, one he already knew…but not like this.

Pepe was pressing his organ into his ass, but clearly without any lubrication. He held the child's hips in place as he moved forward with his dogged, slow progression into his anal canal.

"AAGGH! AAUGGGGHHHHH! NN-NOOOO!" Cioccolata screamed now the loudest he ever had as he felt the distinct tearing sensation in his rectum.

After the worst of his screaming settled, Chia rested the side of his face against his thigh, then directing his dick into the boy's mouth. It was resistance after resistance from this point on. The fight kept going, for both sides with the men. It seemed to play out as if it were only a game of tug of war, and Cioccolata of course, the rope. Despite it all, he didn't make for a limp subject, he kept at his resistance, or as much could be allowed. But rather than become frustrated with how much will the boy had, it only seemed to supply them with all the encouragement they needed; not any different from the interaction of predator and prey.

It was because, like their leader, they were absolute sadists. They were all jailbirds, especially Pepe, who was only recently released for murder in a drive by shooting. His release could only be credited to the gang.

Lino himself served the longest, having taken a bid of ten years, presumably for offenses that were, but not limited to drug trafficking. For these men, namely Pepe and Chia, it was not so much that they really found Cioccolata sexually arousing, but the sense of power that came with the installation of fear into someone so much younger than them. Olivio was the youngest of their squad. Lino was forty-three, Chia thirty-one, and Pepe twenty-six.

Given this fact, it made Olivio and his current misdeeds look like nothing more than child's play. He had joined the gang as a teen, and not yet reaching his twenties, he was being groomed by the best into the world and fitting temperament of the mafiosos. Lino saw promise in him, along with something more which derived his sentimentality toward him. The reasons for it were not known.

Speaking of Olivio, at the moment, he was sitting in his vehicle smoking and listening to music. He wouldn't be able to hear anything at all coming from the shed, with its stone and brick barrier, but especially not now. He did think of what was going on in there from time to time, because he already _knew _what would happen in there.

He felt relief in this fact; by allowing him to be abused in such a way by his own comrades, he could finally deterge himself of Cioccolata for good. If other men like him claimed him in such a way, in Olivio's mind, it meant that there was no longer any connection between them. As a matter of fact, Olivio _needed _this to break even from the boy; if he didn't arrange for this, he would have been forced to kill him as the object of his obsession.

Given the extremity, it obviously could be speculated that Olivio had strong attachment issues, to which stemmed from his relationship with his mother. His preference for boys could be traced from his development; it was not biological. This fact was something he was not aware of, for like many of us, paraphilia, or perversions to one's nature was a way of mitigating the mess of trauma. It becomes harder yet to recognize the extraneous forces which shape the individual; what is natural and what is construed.

The terrible passing of Cioccolata's punishment was enough for Olivio to listen to within about two albums whilst being stoned. Not even a full-length movie, yet it felt so much longer for the boy, for each and every second was painful. Cioccolata learned to cope, adjusted to the constant cadence of pain waves; adapted to ride each one out until he felt that he was thoroughly acquainted with each nociceptor.

Even when he felt it couldn't be worse, having a man violently ravaging into him from behind, the back of his throat being punched out by a now enormously engorged cock, it became so much more. It was as though with each thrust they pumped the child with an ounce of their world; until he was full to the brim with its gallons. He felt his bound wrists being yanked into someone's hands, but he couldn't see who. He knew it wasn't Chia's. For one, the angle couldn't have been accomplished, and Chia had enough to deal with in holding his face still. He knew well enough it wasn't Pepe, as he could feel his wrists on either side of his waist, propping himself up on the mattress as he clapped his cheeks. Sure enough then, it was Lino.

A tugging was carried out on his helpless fingers, as it occurred to him that the man was trying to loosen the bones forcefully from their origins. He didn't need much help in doing so, seemingly to rely on the force produced by Pepe's wild thrashing to supply the corequisites needed to succeed. He only tugged slightly as a tease, a seasoned torturer. It sent Cioccolata barreling into more screams, reigniting the sense of survival that previously waxed and waned amidst the torment.

It excited Pepe, to which he exclaimed, "Yes! yes! Do that to him! He's struggling more now!"

Chia was mostly quiet, but he let out long groans every now and then, to which he increased his thrusting in Cioccolata's throat.

Lino made vulgar comments, commenting on how feminine the boy truly looked like this, down to even his facial expressions. Constantly, he evaluated his face, seemingly interested in taking measurement of the child's pain tolerance by reading his eyes.

"His pupils are almost completely dilated. He's terrified, that's for sure." He patted the boy's head then, complimented him with, "Good _girl_." Lino snickered knowingly, proving that he did indeed have Olivio tell him everything about them. He heard his low growl above his head, as he gave the sockets a slight twist, adding, "In our business, we measure our performance by how much despair our targets look to be in. Assuming that we are leaving them alive."

And it was clearly a great performance. Sweat trickled down Chia's neck, he lifted his face to the ceiling in clear ecstasy as his brows knit themselves. Cioccolata could feel Pepe's hot breath hit his spine, crawl and linger there to each thrust.

"Fuck! Hurry up, Pepe! I'm gonna cum if this keeps up," Chia commented somewhat flustered.

"AAARUGH! Just a little more, I'm almost _there!"_ he cried.

It seemed Lino's torture was helping Pepe build up his ejaculation, and in effect, they both fed into each other almost as if in a positive feedback loop. Eventually, Pepe's thrusts became so impactful, that they pressed Cioccolata's body into the mattress further still, until finally, the phalange was dislocated from the joint.

In screaming from the agony, Cioccolata could hardly pay attention to Pepe emptying his seed into his ass, pulling him away from Chia in the process.

He burst into lewd exclamations, even in the act, he was chatty. "AH! HAH! Th-this fucking ass! GOOD GOD! FUCK!" He slapped and clawed into his ass cheeks as if to drive the point home.

No sooner than he felt the sick feeling of the man's limp organ sliding out of him, did he then feel Chia switch over to where Pepe once was, and prepare himself for his long-awaited entry.

"Aaah, god…" Chia moaned once slithering inside the already prepared asshole; Cioccolata's saliva already provided for the lubrication needed.

As the boy braced himself for the next wild romping, Chia already pumping him with a start from all that previous buildup, he realized that Pepe was now above his face.

"You ready to taste shit, little bitch?" He sneered, then made his meaning clear. He shoved his semi-limp organ into the boy's mouth, making him get a good taste of his own ass juice. Used to the near suffocation he had already experienced with Chia's dick; Pepe's was relatively welcoming given that it wasn't fully erect. But that wasn't the only reason…he could now feel that Chia was much more impressive in girth than Pepe. His incessant jackhammering motion left the boy feeling more crippled than before.

"Need an incentive like he did?" Asked Lino to Chia, noticing his frustrated plows into Cioccolata's ass.

"Sure, why not." He responded.

"No, no, no…NO!" Cioccolata attempted the scream between his aching throat and Pepe's dick.

But Pepe reprimanded him now. "_You_ shut the fuck up," and he smacked him across the mouth.

The next finger, his middle, was now beginning to be tested by their leader with delight, but before his next round of screaming could begin, Pepe took the boy's jaw into his hand.

"You remember these?" He asked in an eerily gentle voice.

When Cioccolata opened his eyes, he saw it was his undergarments in Pepe's hand. It would have been shameful for him before, humiliating. Yet, he felt next to nothing now at seeing it. As if the worst had already happened, he went on simply awaiting his death by their hands.

"_Yeeeaah_. Can you nod your head for Papà? Or maybe you can't, with your bitch-face all smashed into the bed like that. Anyway, time to open your mouth."

The boy gave his typical struggle, but Pepe saw through it with the eagerness of a sadist for which he was, chuckling as he thrashed the boy's face from side to side until he accomplished what he set out to do.

The increase of the tempo of the fucking brought about Lino to dislocate yet another finger on the boy, and all this worked to drive him to nearly choking on his own undergarments which increasingly slipped back toward his tonsils.

He realized fast that the more he succumbed to his pain, the more internal gasping and convulsions he took, the more likely it was that he would choke faster…

…And he didn't know whether he should therefore fight the pain in favor for surviving longer, or simply let it happen faster and naturally.

In the end he chose survival. Despite how broken he was, he was determined to at least go out with a fight.

After so much energy exertion however, it was bound to happen—Cioccolata found there wasn't much fight left in him after a solid forty minutes. He began falling limp to the chaos, with it, the greatest sense of powerlessness he had ever known. The rocking began to lull him, and it was certainly the last thing he had wanted. But he was never allowed to slip into the unconscious, or Pepe slapped him silly every time.

There was an abrupt jerk eventually, a lifting of his pelvic from the mattress, which indicated to him that Chia was finishing. Thinking it would be finished for him however, was another matter.

Pepe pulled his undergarments from deep in his mouth with a rebuff, "Ew, _gross._" An ironic remark given what he was doing.

Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen that threatened his brain to shut down, for the full inhalation of air the boy experienced would have been delightful, if not for the intense musk of mold. So overwhelming, he found himself almost retching to the stench. He couldn't understand how the other men seemed so unbothered with their choice in hang out.

He felt himself flung upward by his bound arms, felt the rope being loosened, to his surprise. For what reason could there be to release his arms?

The freedom you would expect to be granted from the release of his arms was not an accurate depiction of the experience. At liberation, he was reminded only of how weak he felt at the soul level, as his arms slinked back to his sides as if they were jelly. True enough, his limbs were free, his asshole was free, he was no longer manhandled at this very moment, at the least—but at what cost?

Chia, the man who had the last claim on him, grabbed the boy now by his hair, his thick locks proving to be a detriment in the occasion. He flung the boy off the mattress in the direction of the stone floor. Cioccolata instinctively used his hands to break his fall and catch landing, but it was a careless move given his two dislocated fingers. The impact shot into the bone, and his body gave him the appropriate reminder of his fresh injury.

He yelped in the anguish, before letting his bare knees and elbows take on the rest; skinning them in the process. He didn't fall onto the floor as fully and pathetically as the men likely hoped, but they erupted into laughter all the same.

A foot or so in front of him lied a round, gray bowl with moist food inside. It was a dog bowl, and the food inside therefore being dog food. His stomach flipped as he seemed to connect the reason for its placement, and his place on the floor. When he chanced to look back up, he saw the men standing before him, staring down at him expectantly. Two pairs of the soot browns, a pair of grays as solid as the stone floor, and of course, the blue face paint that already seemed burned into his memory. The arrangement was indeed for effect; he felt that he understood these men to be his executioners.

"Just because Olivio didn't think to get us something to eat, doesn't mean we didn't think of _you," _Pepe leered, spreading his legs and crossing his arms after saying so as if it fed his masculinity, or perhaps that he was attempting to validate his lack of it.

Cioccolata's lips quivered, to his disgrace. It was something he couldn't control, as a shame penetrated him deeper than when he was just fucked. Not only did they seek to emasculate him, but they wished to dehumanize him as well. The car ride from close to an hour ago rehearsed unwelcomed into his mind; he could almost hear Pepe howling into his ears. This is what he meant. They planned this.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Eat! _Eat!_" Chia now piped, his tongue wetting his crooked lips.

Lino gave the bowl a gentle kick, and the plastic etched forward across the stone to the boy, perfectly, without spilling any of its contents over. The food wasn't dry or shaped into pebbles, it wasn't the type of consistency for which this might have happened. Brown mush, it clung to the bowl as if itself like a swirl of bile.

And the boy's own bile seemed to rise in his throat as he couldn't help but detect its odor, mixed with the mildew that smelled more intense being on the floor. He knew he couldn't bring himself to do it, and his eyes lowered past the floor, focusing on the tiny grains of dirt on the stone, dissociating from reality.

"Oh? Is that disobedience I see?" Lino asked gently.

His tone was so soft, it seemed to imply that he would wait for an answer, but really, he wasn't. He ordered his men to beat him down.

He immediately threw his arms over his head, knowing to protect the most vital part as a barrage of kicks and stomps flooded; hitting ribs, the backs of his hands covering his head, hips, legs. Unable to count it all, he pulled further into a fetal position, but found himself winded when one of the men circled around him to shove his toe into his gut.

Unable to handle much more, and fearing that if this went on, he would just be beaten to death, the boy screamed in despair.

"STOP IT! STOP! STOP! I'LL EAT! I'LL EAT IT!"

Lino threw his palm out as a signal to the men. Pepe was in the middle of throwing another extension of his calf, and despite his impulsive nature, he halted with a hard bite on his large, pouting bottom lip. The tip of his steel toed boot stopped mid-air, millimeters away from contact from the boy's ribs; the final kick that may have sent the fractured rib puncturing into his lung.

It took enormous willpower for Pepe, who felt that a monster had been unleashed. He balled his fists, turned away from the boy and his men and paced toward the other end of the room, then stomping his feet into the ground with loud stamps, and a guttural scream of frustration. The display of unhinged aggression might have seemed a bit much to an outsider, but this was something the men typically observed of Pepe. He had the most trouble controlling his rage, and when denied of it, was thrown into fits.

"Go on. We're waiting, don't mind that maniac." Lino encouraged the boy, who now looked at the slop in the bowl. He couldn't get up on his elbows even after that beatdown. But the bowl was unharmed in all this, it laid untouched and innocent. He closed his eyes, lowered his face until his chin settled on the cool brim.

"Wait," Lino spoke, "Not like a slug, eat it like a man. Prop yourself up on your elbows and knees at least." He ordered, his lizard lips flattening into a long, thin line.

How could he even attempt that with how injured he felt he was? He felt he could hardly do anything more than crawl! And why was _he _so concerned with him behaving like a man after what they all did to him?

"Even _dogs _sit up when they eat, you _ritardato_. Get the fuck up and tap into your role." Pepe seethed aggressively, he seemed to be displacing his anger over stopping the beating into his tone.

He had no choice, or who knows what would ensue again over this. He had no choice _but _to be a man, to grasp at whatever masculinity was left from the robbery of it. He tested one elbow, then the other. Satisfied with what strength still appeared present, he tested a knee, but the strength left, and his lower half fell short. He fell forward on his face, but upon impact it flung the bowl, some of its contents spilling over. Luckily, most of the moist dog food remained.

Chia scoffed. "After we were kind enough to put it in the bowl…you're still eating that. Matter of fact, clean that mess up first."

He cursed himself internally, knowing it had to be done. No other voices piped in, and the boy attempted to get on his knees again. His skinned elbows and knees stung, but their pain was put to his mind's backburner with how much pain reverberated in his bones. Shakily, he accomplished what he was set out to do. He lowered his face to the stone, focusing on the bit of dog putty formed into a splat.

He shut off his senses, just for the moment, as he licked up the slop. Not chewing it, he swallowed quickly without allowing his taste buds the chance to detect the taste.

The slop slithered down his dry, hoarse throat slowly, and without delay, he pulled the bowl closer to him. His eyes stared into the bowl with dead intent, he wolfed it down as if there was honor to be found in doing so. For Lino especially, it was actually quite impressive. His gray eyes widened a bit as he watched the child's determination to finish the contents.

Chia and Pepe however were roaring in a mockery of applause and laughter, clapping their hands and whistling it on forward with, "Good girl! Good girl! What a good girl!" They complimented him with the intent of reforming him into a bitch.

When Cioccolata finished, Lino now commended him, adding, "Amazing. I am wholeheartedly impressed." But the comment flew past the boy; for he didn't know if it was made in sarcasm or truth.

Cioccolata, after finishing, sank into the stone once more, relieving his aching limbs so that he could at least attempt to suffer in peace, to go in silence. He breathed heavy now, as he tried to repress his whimpers in pain. Already, he felt his stomach unsettling, twisting into a mess of uncertainly as his body began to reject the canine meal. The belch arising from his esophagus gave a prolusion of his stomach's inability to hold down what he had just ingested.

Hot tremors, pins and needles and nausea struck with slowly escalating intensity. He wrapped his arms around his gut as the god-awful stench of the turkey flavored residue and mold flooded his senses. He let out an agonized moan as sweat broke along his cheeks, felt the blood rushing to them.

Not long later, he retched all over the stone barely able to back up as he did, spilling some of the mess on himself. He heaved intensely four times, until only saliva was left in the barely chewed meal mixed with wine. He huffed in relief once feeling the nausea subside, closing his eyes and laying the side of his face on his arm. The warmth of his inner arm was the closest thing he had as a comfort for now, as his face overlaid his brachial artery.

He had no more words to speak, he felt that he went mute, only pleas in his mind rang out, pleading that they would stop, to finally get on with killing him. His ass was sore, his bones ached, and now his guts felt like they were torn apart; leaving the entirety of his abdominal sore.

He heard their voices, but not what they were saying. Their words seemed to envelop into a mist, sounding further and further than what he knew them to be. He felt his body being turned on his side, but the weight was uneven, his body flopped until he was left lying on his back completely. Knowing he was exposed didn't matter anymore, but he knew what was coming, or at least, he hoped for it.

He risked opening his eyes, just a crack was all he felt he could muster through the nightmare. He stared up at the faces that would singe his memory forever; eyes which also stared back at him in dim, chinky slants. Even Lino's gray eyes took on a dark luster, reflecting to him the dark intent of a mafioso who had done this countless times. Chia and Pepe stared down with an easily distinguishable look of triumph; the absolute satisfaction that came with assured victory. But in Lino's, there seemed to be something else which Cioccolata had no way of interpreting at this moment. It was a look he would later ponder on for years to come.

It wasn't anything sentimental, nothing that could be interpreted personally. Yet it also was not so impersonal. The light tint of his eyes revealed almost a look of fascination with the child, or that he was perhaps impressed…at least, it was the first thought that entered his brain upon observation. However, it was difficult to truly analyze; doing so required the alertness one would have when fully awake—something the boy was now lacking. In fact, he felt himself drifting off from sheer exhaustion; his lids met upon the other with a heaviness.

As much as he knew that he wanted it to end, he refused to give into the darkness that was taking him. The thought was terrifying, knowing that if he allowed himself to pass out here, he may never awaken. He never felt such a feeling before; the juxtaposition of will over defeat.

A kick of life energy was what he needed to give voice to his deepest fear, to place finality within closure; the final, reluctant step.

"A-a-aren't you going t-to kill me?"

There was an amused exhale from one of the men, he didn't see who. He addressed Lino, not them, and so, he looked only at their leader.

Lino's lips parted, but he didn't yet speak. He watched the boy's eyes widen momentarily, pupils dilating not to take in more light but to clearly exemplify the fear he was ridden with. He knew he wasn't going to tell the boy the reason, because he wanted to respect _only _Olivio's wishes on the matter.

Olivio did not wish for them to execute this boy. Everything that they had done to him was just as planned, reviewed with him. But not murder. For the pride and respect of Olivio, he did not wish to relay this information, just in case Olivio did not _want _this boy to know of his mercy. Lino was completely honest when he initially told young Cioccolata that he decided a piece of shit like him shouldn't be allowed to live…if it was placed with his own will, he would do so. He didn't care that he was just a child. He had no fucks to give when it came to that.

He decided to honor Olivio's wish, satisfying himself with the lesson they would impart on the child. Perhaps death was too good for him, perhaps he deserved worse; the shame that would surely follow him into his adulthood.

He shook his head slowly, with this in mind. In doing so, he watched how the boy's eyelids strained themselves to widen; disbelief marking his features.

"Even better. We're leaving you with…memories. Good memories," He whispered gruffly.

A peculiarity was triggered in Cioccolata from this revelation. A spark of flame ignited in his once near dead green eyes.

With a note of feistiness, he rebuffed, "…Y-you won't kill me? I _h-hate_ all of you…"

"Ah. Finally showing me that brat attitude, hm?" He paused, reveling in the boy's panting after speaking, "Who knows, maybe if you fix that mouth of yours, if you watch the moves you make from here on, I'll embrace you into _mi famiglia _in a few years."

He was being sarcastic, but it was possible the offer was genuine. He found spirit in the boy by risking such a remark to his enemy, especially while they clearly had the upper hand. If there was one good thing he could say about him, it was that the child certainly had guts.

"To hell with your _famiglia…!" _Young Cioccolata tried and failed to sound tough, his waning energy not helping him in the slightest. He however, still attempted to continue his rebuke to the man above him with, "_N-never…!_ I-I'll _never_ become a low-life _mafioso _like _you—like all of you…!" _

The pathetic, sloppily attempted words seemed to roll off Lino's clothes until they fell back into a defeated pile upon its speaker. A slight frown was present on his thin lips as he cocked his neck slightly to get a better look at the child. He scanned his entire physique, an impressive build for a thirteen-year-old. His eyes settled back on the boy's black and blue face, the lump on his temple beginning to take on a greenish hue.

_"Mai dire mai. _Do you think we all woke up and decided we'd enter our business because—I don't know…" He trailed off just then, not because he was stuck on what to say next so much as for instilling suspense. He looked to Chia and Pepe however, and they seemed to be hanging on his words, understandably. He continued, "_I don't know…_because we just dreamed of _this_ kind of life? We didn't have a choice given our circumstances. It was fate."

There was a slight, but unobserved softening in his men's eyes upon saying this, as if something in their souls were sated for the time being.

Lino pondered this immediately after he spoke but, after noting the expression of the boy, favored for conclusion at what he had said. Boys like him typically thought their business was cute. They entertained the idea of the status, money, women. They were impressionable and lacked the critical thinking needed to weight the cons; the fact that their business was the ultimate courter of death—especially for corrupt mafiosos such as themselves.

For what reason did this boy cross paths with Olivio? Was it just chance, bad luck? Or was it fate? Did their meeting adhere to the laws of attraction—did like attract like? Lino felt it wasn't completely out of the question. He resented this boy for his disrespect toward one of his _famiglia, _but that did not mean that he was not exempt from becoming just like them.

_No. He may have called Olivio and people like us trash, but the irony is that he's just like us. And someday, he very well might be one of us. _This was the exact thought, and he let it linger in his mind, not finding the possibility to be a slate but of something to be seriously considered.

Cioccolata had no inkling of these things, however. As he found himself fading in and out of consciousness, the man's words drifted into meaninglessness as the unrelenting black overtook him.

* * *

Although it is often read in magazines and showcased more often than not in TV, movies, and cherry picked by the mainstream media—miracles were hard to come by. Yes, they happen. Perhaps every 1 out of 100, 1 out of 1000, if not a wider pool when considering the environment in question. However, it was almost a human or societal condition that people choose to favor the outlier over the masses, or the default. This was the case for the juxtaposition of good and evil.

The latter, along with the elements needed in a child's environment in order to birth it, is only celebrated when that child has the strength to overcome their pessimistic circumstances. What about when these children fall to their circumstances? What if they are faced with the grim reality that they are more likely to be fused within the societal matrix of prospects decided for them simply by their birth? The fact that this happened to more children than not, especially in Italy during Cioccolata's childhood, was not discussed.

It was only a matter of time for most that they would become one with the very fabric of their environments. If a child was lucky enough to maintain a "good heart," it was not so much an indication of the quality of their soul but rather one of privilege or luck. The scars left by the default occurrence of child abuse imparted a type of trauma that for many, would last a lifetime. Even within environments shrouded by the deepest despair, there was always a dim, dying light of hope. But that glimmer was so few, when only one child was able to enter it, their shadow blocked off the entrance for all else. One child's rise out of poor circumstance meant the dismay for hundreds more.

At the other end of trauma's toll, that which fell upon the heads of the lot of children, we see the birth of serial murderers, pedophiles, rapists, drug peddlers, or a combination of more than one of these breeds. Their life mission from hereon is pain, their minds attempt to seek justice for their own wrongings, whether they are consciously aware of the fact or not. For the most traumatized, their mind takes on more than a bit of delusion; their reasonings become heavily muddled in psychosis.

Retribution becomes the vision of the violated. On the outside looking in, it's hard to see that the violator was also once the violated. An endless cycle ensues, broken by very few. The few who break it, while commendable, should not be celebrated as if this is the standard, as if this is something to be expected of all who are violated. No—it's a rarity, an outlier, a blessing.

Since it is the case that most, if not all perpetrators were once victims of injustice, it's highly arguable that justice is served by the arrest or execution of these men. Afterall, haven't we had at least two thousand years of "evil" men? If the circumstance is constantly reemerging, it begs to point to a different explanation of its root cause—while also making it clear that that execution of these individuals do nothing to solve the issue.

Life, experience, and all its polarities could not be summed up within a detective-serial killer documentary which only served to exploit and stigmatize the trauma and mental illnesses of the latter. Evil did not end at the man's capture or execution; evil is carried on by treating the man's capture as an antidote of terror. Evil is ignoring and not addressing the causes for the man's fallen state. Evil is the virtue signaling that is carried out by those who lack perspective of hardship and struggle.

Or did evil exist at all? Did good exist at all? Were these concepts not subjective, man-made facets of the imagination established as a way to make sense of the natural world? The higher intelligence that followed the king of all vertebrates, as it turned out, impeded consensus among the tribes of the earth as per geographical location. What was understood as sin followed a different line of thought and worldly explanation depending on the sample for which you choose.

As such, the hair could further be split when searching for the root of "evil." Perhaps it would be better to refer to things classically defined as evil, as simply being unnatural occurrences. In doing so, emotion is removed from the equation, and as such, only the reason that is needed for an empirical understanding would remain. In the case of trauma, and the victims for which it reconverts into victimizers, it would be like trying to answer the question of whether the chicken or the egg came first.

Taking individuals case by case proved to be an ineffective method, as well as an egotistical one. All men, at their core, were generalizable and easily classified into different breeds just like any taxonomy of species. The mechanics operating the machine of organizational stratum which makes up a society only offered so many outcomes.

It was a consequence of enlarged civilization that crimes against humanity in such a large scale, flourished. In the small tribal communities, which men were meant to be a part of, the incidence of atrocity was marginal. The consequences were easily mitigated through wise council of tribe leaders; any social straying was easily observable, noted, and corrected at an early age. This in effect, made the incidence of trauma and victimization minimal; for no one could be _born _evil. The dynamics of the uncivilized or "heathens" was highly propagandized for thousands of years in order to keep people entrapped within a social and political maze, as well as a spiritual isolation.

What those in power described as anarchy befitting the association with the uncivilized world was, in actuality, more applicable to the frameworks of industrialized machines which they weaved upon the commoner. The elite understood well the effect of domesticating men through the safety they promised him with civilization: it made men weak, spiritually castrated and simple enough to rule over. The fact stood that civilization was not only a form of social degeneration, but very well an attempt of nurturing and propagating strains of mutant genetics which would normally be lost through evolution. Civilization, society, urbanization, industrialization, globalization; these were the means for which the elite used in an effort to destroy Nature.

At the conclusion of Cioccolata's intricately fathomed world views came the justification and more that he needed for his destruction of life. Although much more could be said on his reasonings and the mass of emotions he felt, it went without saying that he seemed to scorn humanity befitting the ferocity of a vengeful and conniving god, fed up with the very fiber of man. A bacterium in which he felt entitled to eliminate.

Cioccolata wasn't born a full-blown psychopath, though he of course was biologically and environmentally predisposed. It was rather that the circumstances of his childhood and trauma invigorated something within him that would otherwise had not reached its potential nor showed its face in full. Had he not gone through these things—at best—he would have been a prejudiced, hateful, misogynistic and conceited man with low tier psychopathy. Really, he would have suffered with not much more mental health issues than the average man.

But to make a standing case for all this is meaningless. Because events transpired the way that they have, it was—true to Cioccolata's understanding of his own spirituality—destiny. He made not a victim out of himself; he wasted no time on "what-ifs." He accepted himself for the man he had become, seeing it as a test of prowess and worth within a world that was increasingly blackened.

He rightfully was not inflicted by the emotionality that is synonymous with those with strong moral compasses. He had no remorse; his heart hadn't the room to occupy it. The religious admiration for Death that Cioccolata preoccupied his psyche with came from the fact that he—for the majority of his life by now—was faced with the revelation that he truly was, at the soul level, dead.

Murder after murder was not only a form of retribution, it was a validation of his own internal turmoil; a perpetual state of pain. A way to get even with humanity, at society, for creating the monster that he was. It was, in addition, a fight on his behalf for the supremacy of Nature, of stamping upon the world his Darwinian and eugenic agenda. For Cioccolata, the struggle of man boiled down to survival of the fittest, while he, on account of his narcissism, fancied himself at the highest order of the hierarchy of man. Indeed, there was simply no man like him, he told himself. Not anymore at least—within the modern, perverted society for which he was born into.

Curiosity was the most important factor for spiritual growth. It was necessary for a man to dive into the abyss of the unknown, to unlock the hidden potentials of himself. Curiosity represented the untampered callings of the spirit, something for which society had thoroughly extinguished through the educational system. Domesticated man was not meant to be curious, and therefore, spiritually daft. Cioccolata was the very man for which was a threat to civilization; those which elitists worked hard to destroy.

And though the elite were strong in the sense that they made the rules, their power was afforded to them not by brute force but from subliminal mental games and aggravative tactics of generational entropy. Cioccolata did not regard them as "fit," or otherwise, those who were meant to rule in Nature. He deemed that only men who killed and destroyed as befitting any predator had the sovereign rule granted by natural law to rule. Destruction was necessary to set the world back on its proper course. It was a duty for him to obey Nature; as it was a duty for the strong to rule over the weak!

Another defining element to him was the predominance of Catholicism in his environment and upbringing, as well as his boarding school education—something which coalesced into his distorted thinking until the resulting output was a complete bastardization of religion. Cioccolata worshipped none other than himself, and though he was a spiritual man, he could not be tamed nor boxed by the limitations of religious doctrines. How could he, if he regarded himself as the supreme being? God was something to him which could not be described, but he understood that once birthed, man was his own ruler. One could say he was an atheist, and they might even say he was Satanic. However, both conclusions were a miss. But to conclude that he was simply a hedonistic heathen? That was a hit.

The many intricate factors which contributed to his psychopathy as of this point, was neither here nor there. There could be endless explanations, and since it couldn't be applied across the board, to many people that makes it inexcusable.

Everything that had happened in that room, on that midsummer night of 1980, was like the stuff that made nightmares for many. In fact, the boy did suffer from nightmares, and this carried on still into adulthood. There was simply no way to tie the evening's events into a tidy, succinct package; its contents spilled over endlessly each time he had tried to close it. Coping? It became clear to him sometime in his later teens that it was out of the question.

The dried, somewhat cracked blue paint on their faces, the image of the cross—it was something that struck him heavy. Maintaining its own gravity upon young Cioccolata, it pulled the child into such a depraved state that may not have seen fruition had this event not transpired. Such a cruel fate it was, that the boy's mind drifted further from the catalyst of his degenerated state. Thought patterns and distinct characteristics which should not have emerged until much later, evolved much sooner, at such a young age that cognitive errors were unavoidable; guaranteed even.

And it was only a matter of just another six months of repressing this trauma, that he would not only commit his first indirect acts of murder but commit to his ambition for dealing in death. Right or wrong…it seemed to be the path laid out for him.

And so, when Cioccolata awoke, he found himself dumped in the valley near his home estate. The wondrous thing, besides the fact that he was not slain, was the fact that he was left with his clothes! He did the natural thing, and clothed himself, knowing that he would not wish to be naked again for a long while…

Besides the disorientation of his awakening, there wasn't much that stuck out to him in his memory. Trauma may have evoked this; for his mind went into automatic survival mode, making his way home as discreetly as possible through the wooded areas.

Luckily for him, his home valley was almost entirely rural. A small square did exist, but so many of the properties were spaced out. In the dead of the night, likely around 2:30 past midnight, he was provided with more than enough shade to be sure he was not spotted. Though he knew his way around the valley, doing so with only the light of the moon was a difficult task. It took him longer than he should have, which should have been only a half an hour at most.

Cioccolata had no way of telling the time, he had nothing at all with him besides the clothes he was fortunate enough to have on his back. Still, he understood that time was indeed passing, and he was passing the valley wood at perhaps the blackest of hours. He began to wonder if he should just find some place to lounge until the sky began to lighten.

Young Cioccolata did not realize it, but he was closer to the estate than what he realized. In fact, the particular wood that he was wandering was one which was an extension of his home estate's property, one he would later inherit and dub as per his taste**—**it was Despair Forest! (not very original of him).

But Despair Forest surely contradicted its own name, for it was, after all, not born with such a name. Its vitality was apparent in all its vegetation; foliage which climbed so high, it made it easy to see why the ancients worshipped the trees so. There were hardly any trails, indeed, some portions seemed more ominous than others; pine and sycamore making up the most archaic of chases—the width of their trunks and extension of their roots the shameless indicators. In other portions could be found olive and small-leaved lime, especially when toward the bog.

It was such a wonderful thing to see a forest so untouched by man over the centuries, and it could be assumed that the will of the valley inhabitants along with the seclusion and mountainous terrain constituted for this preservation.

And it was where the young Cioccolata would find a place to sleep for at least a couple of hours until there was some light to guide him back. He didn't think much of his parents, as he felt the ache all over his body become more severe. He settled once he found some flat ground, felt the soil become softer, more welcoming. The more he walked, it mattered less what he found. Once he settled down, the chill became more apparent. The fresh air was a great welcome over the must and mildew he smelled in that room, but it grew into a chill which tickled his sinuses. He dug his fingers briefly into the sediment, and when he found them moist, it made sense to him. He must have been near the bog he had heard of, the "Goddess bog," as the inhabitants of the valley called it.

Serenity encompassed him in that moment, knowing that he happened to settle upon such a revered valley landmark. He felt it was even…fate. That he was meant and called to be here. Perhaps he was chosen, and this land's deity saw him to have a higher purpose. His fingers traced the bruising on his face, as he whispered to himself affirmations; gratitude in keeping his life. He huddled himself, and soon, pain began to vanish as he drifted into a dreamless sleep. Only occasionally was he awakened by the deer who gained sustenance from the very ethereal body of water where he too, acquired new life.


	7. Chapter 7

_"None of my friends want to come out and play,  
they think I'm crazy but what can I say?  
prisoner in hell,  
victim in pain!  
It's nearing the end,_

_I live like the dead!" ~The Dungeons Are Calling, Savatage_

**Capitolo VII:**

* * *

**-**_Formazione schiava: terza fase-_

.

The story of the phoenix reborn is one of absolute redemption. Disintegrated into nothing but ash, it rises from the very thing which must destroy it—Death. A mythos regarding resurrection, the primal longing within humanity to break the linear life cycle in favor of that which they observe in Nature—cylindrical. So too, this principle seemed to apply here, with Cioccolata. He recalled these memories with peace only because he understood exactly what it represented for him. He was a slave no more, and that night at the bog, he sought himself to become a master.

Somehow, with only the fortitude of someone totally disconnected from emotion, Cioccolata broke out of his thoughts, thus ending Secco's play.

"Okay, you're done." His voice rang around the cell, directed at Secco, who was greatly enjoying fingering the bound slave.

Secco brought his fingers out of her immediately this time, and he stared up at Cioccolata whilst on his knees.

Cioccolata stepped over to him, placed his head over his head rather affectionately, then handed him the camera. "Good boy. Looks like she's more alive now. _Excellent…_"

Now she was straining her face to turn behind herself somewhat, looking at the man who was about to enter her into his world. Her mocha brown eyes shook as she beheld him, and it registered in her eyes that she knew what was next. It didn't help that his pants were still unzipped.

He marveled at the look in her eyes. You could always know exactly what they're thinking, feeling, just from staring into their eyes. If they were intelligent enough, maybe they would know what he was thinking too.

He brought his toys with him, then knelt behind her, smacking a paddle hard into her ass as his greeting. She wasn't expecting it, and jumped like a rabbit, screaming "ARRROWWHH!"

"Hm. I like that one. Very primal." He commented as he fiddled with the silver chains on the ankle cuffs. He locked them around her ankles, spreading her legs further once he attached the chains to the bar. Her whimpering thence became much more audible. "See, you're already responding how I like. Just think about how much you'll have evolved by the time we're finished."

Really, he spoke too soon; the bitch sealed her fate. Just when Cioccolata began thinking that he might be able to perhaps grow fond of the auburn, she spoke up in a manner that marked her irreversible end in the wake of his good favor.

"P-p-please… Master Cioccolata. My nose hurts really b-bad.. Please, just.. just stop, please… I can't deal with it anymore… I'll.." And she choked into a sob.

She hardly looked at him when she said it, And Cioccolata stared dead into the red light of the camera at Secco. He just might kill this bitch after all. He conducted himself coolly, but the threat was going to be visible in his voice. He knelt into her finally, until their bodies touched—his boner pressed into the back of her thigh—and took her face in his hand.

"Listen whore. You're really testing my patience right now. I take it that you must like suffering, in which case, you've found the right one to give it to you. What did I tell you about not speaking unless I give you permission? _Hey._ You look at me now."

Her eyes snapped up at him but were obviously very reluctant to hold his cold stare. With their eyes this close, it was as though he was peering inside of her.

He took the base of her nose between his fingers, applying pressure, twisting it around, rubbing the fractured bone against cartilage. And she screamed the loudest she ever did. He quickly shoved his fingers down her throat when she did, until he was gagging her, then continuing to twist her nose around.

After about 15 seconds of torture. He released her nose, took his fingers from her throat, then resumed speaking.

"Look at me again, _puttana_."

She did this time, her nose bleeding anew and twisted uglier than ever.

"I won't be fixing it until this weekend now, since you've decided that you like to suffer." He spat. Tears spilled down her face as he continued to bore into her brown eyes. "Now listen here, by the time I am finished with you, you will no longer be able to speak. All you could mostly do, at best, is moan and grunt like the animal I will mold you to be. Do you see him?" He briefly pointed to Secco and continued, "That's what you'll become. And if anyone else were to see you, they will think that we are a match made in heaven—we will know each other so very well. After all the ways I will torment you, and of all the ways I can take your life, you will have no choice but to bond with me like no one else you have ever known in your pathetic life. When your training is complete, you will know everything that I like more than you will know yourself anymore. And I will know you better than your parents. I will become your creator."

The auburn's eyes darted from his eyes to all the features of his long face and back to his eyes again. Her terror could almost be absorbed by him, he fed upon it and was quite delighted to see its effect upon her.

And without further ado, he prepared to fasten a strapped leather muzzle on her. But she was immediately turned off to the design of it when the interior of the muzzle revealed a dildo of average length and girth. That slight moment of hesitation, her chin pulling away, even by a few centimeters, only displeased him more.

"Open your mouth or I'm pulling out all of your teeth. You won't be the first or the last I've done it to."

With a pathetic whimper she opened her mouth wide.

"_Gooood!_ That's right! Good girl!" He beamed in an incredible mood swing. He fastened the belt to the muzzle at the back of her head, whilst pulling her hair out of the way. She choked already; the dildo fixed to the far back of her throat. This was his favorite gag as it was the most dehumanizing.

Secco began making slight grumbling noises, he was undoubtedly becoming excited yet again. He would be too if all he could do was watch. _That used to be him. _It wasn't bad, not at all. If he could watch again, as he did just briefly before this, it was quite enjoyable. He never lost touch of his original kink. It was the whole entire reason he made sure to watch his tapes after the fact.

With her chords of dark brown hair in his hands, he quickly made a tightly secured braid. They were the best way to subdue them, great to yank on, and looked quite neat. Ideally, he wanted his slaves to look pitiful, but presentable. The tip of her braid just grazed her tailbone and he circled it in his hand from the base, working his way down. Once his hand reached the middle of the length, he gripped and pulled down.

Her back arched and her head was pulled back, and the position sent the dildo deeper into her throat. She gagged to no relief, not until she was adapted to the position he held her in. She grimaced all the way through. Her bound wrists screamed against the sisal rope burning into the delicate skin.

_Ohhhh, gesù…_How good that would look later on in the tape, he thought to himself. He couldn't wait to see it… Secco was damn near drooling again, he instinctively moved the piece of his suit away from his mouth, so he didn't salivate all over it.

Cioccolata took the opportunity on her busty breast laid out upon her chest marvelously in the camera's eye. He wrapped the braid around his hand, pulling down harder on her. Then, using his free hand, he thumbed through the toys beside him. He had set aside his tightest gripping metal nipple clamps especially for her disobedient ass. These clamps weren't the tightest gripping in the ordinary sense. They weren't the traditional clothing pin design, rather, sealed at the edges were sharpened edges which hooked around the nipple. Their design resembled an intricate hair clip. After just a little bit of play and movement, the clamps would work their way into the skin, even so much to draw blood.

At the base of the clamps was a single thin, silver chain which was there for aesthetic more than functionality. Although, you could tie it to something else, he supposed. But typically, he just tugged at it to cause further damage. Maybe even rip it off. Who knows, he just might; just to show the bitch who ran the show.

His crotch was pressed against her bare ass as he secured the clamp on one of her nipples. The clamp bit into her nubs, the darkened areolas resisting the pressure which they were being dragged into. Her eyes shot open from their prolonged grimace, and now, as she could no longer scream, only a low growl could be heard from her throat, and it pleased him. He fastened the next clamp on her erect nipple, doubling her pain, sending her arched body reeling against him, the only thing she had supporting her body, whether she liked it or not.

Secco captured every moment of her despair, but it was truly a sight to see. The chains dangled from her breast gloriously, and Cioccolata's lean body behind her only served to compliment her curves. It was clear that her body knew not whether to sweat or shiver. A sweat was breaking on her flushed face, whilst the hair on her arms stood on end, her breast, thighs and legs all revealed goosebumps. Her body quivered to all the sensations, being pulled in so many different directions created a conflict in her primal senses.

What the camera captured couldn't lie. She was weak on her knees; they were bruised already. She wasn't used to any of this. She'd likely never even been tied up. She likely was clean and vanilla. She likely had only a few partners in her life. She likely was never tamed like this. Nothing about her submission looked graceful, only her busty breast, curves, thighs—these were the only things that worked to her advantage. But her, the auburn in spirit, was not built for this type of session at all. It wasn't grace nor resilience in her spirit whatsoever, but weakness and pitiful victimhood.

Cioccolata would admire it later, as he watched, for sure. Rather, it would be a joke to him. A joke to him, made in expense of the violation.

He released her hair, and her head dropped forward. Her breathing was beginning to catch. Her fractured nasal cavity made breathing through her nose difficult—and breathing from her mouth was out of the question. Consequently, the pain in all areas of her body was less of a concern, even her ensnared nipples. Her body had to prioritize; her mind had to make a conscious effort to only think about oxygen.

The auburn hardly felt Cioccolata caressing her ass anymore. He ran his cool hands between her spread thighs, along her waist, until he wrapped his hands around her fat tits. He squeezed them without restraint, inflicting more pain into her tissues. She silently cried, and the force of the exhale from her nostrils sent the inside of her face, behind her nose on fire. Bruises were forming under her eyes and already, her hazelnut eyes were filled with hopeless and the longing for Death. But her previous tears were dried now, there was simply too much pain for it anymore.

Secco groaned now, his hard on was ready to bust through his suit again, and he had to resist the urge to jerk it—this, Cioccolata knew.

He released her breasts, dragging his nails down them, deliberately digging into her skin. He wasn't going to be too satisfied until he gets her bleeding, and it would be done one way or another. But he'd warm her up.

"Say, Secco. How does she look in the face? What's her despair scale from one to ten?"

Secco was excited now. His tongue hung from his mouth at this point, and he raised one finger in the air, his face still glued to the camera.

"One!? W-wait! I meant ten being the highest! _You absolute moron!_!" Cioccolata groaned in disgust while he glared at Secco like he was the biggest piece of shit on the planet.

Secco quickly corrected himself, but he found himself in a predicament. He wanted to rate it an eight, but he only had one free hand.

"Owwaauughhhh!" He raised his whole free hand, with all five fingers spread out. Then he quickly switched it to a thumbs up which he thrust higher in the air, up and down.

"Ah, okay, hm, well that's a problem." Cioccolata lifted his face and pouted his black lips. "She's quite a lot higher than a five, but not a ten I take it. That won't do..." he trailed off, pondering his potential choices.

Should he put a hood on her too? He really thought about it, but with her nose, it wouldn't be a good idea. He might just kill her if she suffocates from it, and she was already having difficulty with that. He wanted to keep her alive longer, plus Secco would be really sad if he did so by accident. What could he do to give her an even greater sense of depersonalization? Soon enough he made up his mind.

He went through his other toys for a moment and brought out a leather blindfold, the inner part which lays against the eyes cushioned black cotton. Its design would be quite secure and comfortable, but that wasn't why he was choosing it namely. Really, it would black her out the most, she wouldn't even be able to get a tiny glimmer of light. Cioccolata's true preference was using hoods with the holes for the eyes. He always, no matter if it were his slaves or his victim, loved to see their eyes, their entire expression really… But he also loved how well the blind folds work to depersonalize his slaves. It was always a hard pick really.

The blonde's turquoise eyes flashed through his mind's eye. It was true, the auburn only had shit brown eyes. He wouldn't be missing out so much to not see them… Yes. He'd save the hood for the blonde instead.

He then carefully wrapped the blindfold over the auburn's eyes saying, "Papà is blindfolding you, slave. My pet doesn't think you're quite a ten yet on Papà's despair scale." He chuckled, after his tease, then continued as he began tying the blindfold at the back of her head. "And I value his opinion. Maybe one day, you can be promoted to pet status like him, then you can be Papà's best girl, eh?"

She only continued to whimper in response, making muffled and squeaky noises, the best she could muster.

"_Awww…_ Poor little slut. I wish you could see how pitiful you look." He began teasing her again, his hands multi tasked throughout her warm body now, groping, squeezing, pinching, twisting, and again, deliberately digging his nails in her anywhere he decided. He slipped his dick out from his black thongs, the accessibility being the only reason he wore them, and pressed his fat girth at the back of her thigh.

"I want to rip your fat pussy apart. But you're not quite ready yet… I have one more toy left for you." he whispered this in her ear.

But really, he could barely contain himself. If he didn't get his dick in her soon he felt as though he were, hypothetically speaking, going to suffer a retrograde ejaculation. Secco's orgasms were already dry ones. Boy it must suck to be him, no thanks to Cioccolata himself.

He grabbed the last toy from his prepared pile, a butt plug of average length and girth, though that wasn't its main feature. Attached to the apex of the plug was a grayish-black tail. The tail itself was much longer than the plug portion. Its purpose was self-explanatory, and Cioccolata adored it.

He put his thumb in his mouth to make it wet, then shoved it in her ass. At this first act of penetration, the auburn's body jumped. Her state of helplessness and denial of visuals left her more at his mercy, and now her breathing proceeded with even more stress. His free fingers latched onto her ass, as he used his thumb to stretch her asshole upwards. Her tight ass fought against his thumb as it attempted with desperation to close. Swiftly, while her mind was still trying to wrap around the discomfort of this act, he had shoved the plug in her ass, no lubrication whatsoever. It was a grueling process. With that being said, Cioccolata enjoyed it immensely.

At first, only the part of the plug went in, the rest of the length, he slowly plied into her behind, reveling in the hoarse grunts and muffled screams as she choked on her lewd gag. Her knees would have been knocking had her legs not been spread apart some when he had cuffed her ankles to the bars. The stinging in her nipples, the hints of blood that peaked at the nubs, and now, even the pain taking up the center of her face, all fell in line one by one in a hierarchy of pain; the merciless sodomy she was enduring standing, unparalleled, at the top of the pyramid. She was tearing as he pushed it along, and her muffled cry dragged on, reaching a peak once he had finally planted the plug deep inside.

By the time it was over, the auburn's ass fell, now without concern completely, against Cioccolata's thigh, his erect dick greeting her. But this was no concern for the slave as of now. Survival was the only thing, enduring each pain was the only thing that mattered. Her breathing was intense, she struggled for air now to regain herself. So glad was she that the immense pain settled, for the most part, that his warm thigh and cock pulsating against her ass was almost a welcome. Her knees gave in, sitting her ass on him was the only thing through which she could gain any type of comfort. She was becoming desperate. More animal. More primal. Submission was at the door now, and Cioccolata was pleased to see it now, truly beginning. This was ultimately his cue. And he smiled down at her triumphantly with all-consuming black lips and bright green eyes.

And he was also pleased to see just how fitting the tail was on her. Now she was a true bitch for him. He grabbed "her" tail and gave it a yank, pulling her ass further into his lap. There was no fight from her body this time, only a whimper, just like a defeated pup. Now that her spiritual barrier had been broken, she was truly his now. _My slave… _

Cioccolata felt as though he was suddenly and passionately swirled into an abyss of eroticism. His heart hammered in a frenzy to think, that once he shoved his dick in her, making it the finale of his breaking in process of his slave, that she will absolutely belong to him, and only him. To think that regardless of all her pathetic attempts to get away from him, whether it was with her shameless pleas, or the times that her body tried to wriggle away from him, she had indeed now submitted to him.

Its impact was clear. She didn't _want _to rest her full round ass cheeks on his cock, she didn't _want _to lean a portion of her weight against him as a means of support, and she wouldn't want to call him master, as she will, every time that she is spoken to after this is over. But she submitted, against her will, she was forced into it. The game was over for her. His conquest was complete, and it all ended in victory for Cioccolata!

With the lingering thought of his triumph, he moved her tail to the side, cupped the bottom of one of her ass cheeks, whilst his thumb pulled the soft skin back, opening her labia more for him. He pressed the tip of dick against her opening, feeling through the resistance.

_"Ahhh… _don't mind if I do." He chuckled only softly at first, but then began erupting in laughter. You would have thought he made a joke worthy of such laughter, but as usual with him, it was something rather corny.

Her squealing intensified, she tried to use the rope binding his wrists as leverage to pull herself up more, to rely on the support of her knees once more, but there was hardly any strength left. The bruising on her knees was also more severe by now; the cellar ground unforgiving. It is true that the help of adrenaline could have come into play for her, but to what use would it have been really? It was much better the energy wasn't wasted. Breathing was increasingly difficult as it were, but the man behind her, against him, now _in her_, was not concerned in the slightest. By now, the blackness she had been left in from the blindfold was getting to her. She was losing touch with reality.

Cioccolata knew the effect it would all have on her, which is why he pushed for a ten on his self-proclaimed "despair scale." He had every intention to break her psyche. If his experiment turned out successful, he will have created a type of Stockholm syndrome in his slaves. They _will _have no choice but to love their perpetrator.

He began pushing himself deeper into her dry cunt, he was using both hands now to spread her apart over him, not caring at all how far he spread her lips apart with his hands, if he would tear on the outside from this spreading or tear her from the inside with his cock. She obviously wasn't a virgin like the blonde, given his discovery. So, she'll live. Rather, he reasoned, if the blonde could deal with the pain, then this bitch could too.

There was no cause for concern, no need to make a fuss over it. Maybe some other cuck of a man would feel the need to enter more gently, feel compelled to lube up. Not this king. It was a tight fit given how terrified she was, it even hurt him a bit by the time he reached her cervix, but it would be worth it to see the blood and tissue covering his dick when he thrusts out. With that, he gripped her thick ass in each hand and went to town fucking her as if it wasn't just a day ago that he busted a nut.

The auburn was completely submitted to him, she used no strength to resist anymore, and whenever he did feel herself try to lift herself somewhat more forward on her knees, he pulled her by the braid back into him. Her breath was ragged, and if he didn't keep her by the braid, her face hung toward the floor. It was incredibly sexy to him, and it built a hard, thick nut in his heavy balls, strengthening how intensely he continued to fuck her.

Every now and then, through the first five minutes, he pulled her face back up, making sure she faced the camera. Even now, he didn't lose sight of the future pleasure. In the meantime, he absolutely ravaged her, taking advantage of everything he could on her. He tugged slightly enough on the chains dangling from her clamps to bring the claws to bite her nipples deeper. He flung one of his arms around her, cupping one breast, smashed his body against her, panting perversely into her neck.

While grinding into her in this way, with his other hand, he pulled on her tail, sending her more into an internal chaos. Her nose was bleeding again, likely from all the heavy breathing and nasally grunting she did. But again, it was no cause for concern. Instead, he took advantage of the heightened sense he knew she had, namely her auditory. He made sure that he grunted, gasped and growled directly behind her ear.

He spoke to his slave, taunting her even more than before with lewd comments.

"See, you're so much better when you can't speak. What a good, domesticated bitch I'm making you."

He continued to torment her anyway possible, as his semen built up. His eyes gleamed in excitement and lust, he began breaking a sweat, feeling himself turn into a beast in response. He could feel fresh blood wrapping around his cock in her, adding just somewhat of a lubrication, enough just to extend his foreskin tightly back, granting him longer thrusts.

More please…All he could think of was more, and more. He grinned from ear to ear like the maniac that he was.

Secco didn't even conceal his own excitement. His tongue was out again, a wide smile plastered on his face. His blue eyes looked unreal, completely round in how wide opened they were. He was rubbing his dick through his suit, grunting slightly himself, but not enough so not to disturb the audio of the tape.

Cioccolata's eyes rested on Secco for a moment, and he spoke again, while he dragged his nails down the auburn's back, deliberately digging them further into the welts. "I hope you've been getting my good angles… not that I have any bad ones, really…" He trailed off to his pleasure, his green eyes lifting toward the cell ceiling.

Yes, that movement alone will look amazing. And Secco did capture it all. His sharp Adam's apple protruding from his thick neck, the turn of his head, the way the lighting highlighted the line of his strong jaw. All Cioccolata could think was how good this pussy was.

As he drilled into her pussy more intensely, he felt himself losing it, and her breathing too, was becoming more strained. He didn't know how much longer he could fuck her without bringing about her suffocation. He really wanted to cum in her ass, he had a big glob ready for her too. He had no time however to dwell on the thought, and he was so horny, too far long to care really. So, he took the risk at prolonging the session.

Suddenly, he pulled his dick from her torn pussy like the authentic sword in the stone, sending her body rocking forward, likely a scream that was muffled by the mock cock in her throat. Just as rapidly, he played no games, he tugged the tail and its attached plug out of her ass, sending her reeling again. Her wrists pulled the hardest now at her restraints, reviving a frenzy for her life, any way to escape from this pain. But with nothing to give her any sanctuary, she was his victim, experiencing the same despair that all Cioccolata's victims experienced.

She sobbed shamelessly into the gag, her broken nose still on fire with pain, her wrists now chafed from the rope, the burn climbing down her wrists to her forearms, all of her joints tired and tried, they struggled to keep her bones together, it had felt. Her restricted cries dehumanized her, the sounds she made resembling a pig.

And this all sent Cioccolata in his glory. He shoved his blood-soaked dick straight in her ass hole, still slightly open from the plug. He smashed his body against her again, as he worked his cock all the way through. Luckily it wasn't as much effort as before, the sweat having dripped from her back, lubricated her asshole. Now, he thoroughly sodomized her, taking her ass cheeks between his hands again, and smacking it against the base of his dick. He snarled away as he felt the cum riding up through him, and he degraded her further, slapping her ass and forcing her to submit, viewing her as the pig that she was, he emptied into her like she was nothing more than a pail for his semen.

He viciously held her ass into him, as his dick pulsated to its last drop, and he kept one of his other hands firmly clutching her shoulder, right between her neck.

His eyes were blood shot and monstrous, he growled, "_Gooooood! _Good, good, good, good. Fucking good."

Secco was astonished by the sight, but needless to say, he was also incredibly jealous. Cioccolata came in her ass, but he didn't in her pussy. Could _he…? _

With that started Secco's shenanigans again.

"Owwwaaaaahhrrg…." He moaned.

Cioccolata knelt stationary with his dick still planted in the auburn's ass. He was just trying to prolong the moment, but he heard Secco's growl, then acknowledged him with a "eh?"

Secco stopped the recording and put down the camera.

"C-ccioooo-Cioccolata!"

Cioccolata was already disgusted. What was this asshole thinking speaking to him when he had just gotten laid? He had a feeling his frown would never be turned upside-down.

"What." His tone was hoarse from the sex. He barely framed it as a question, much less anything of concern.

"Cioccolata—I! Y-you—!"

But then Cioccolata wiped his forehead carefully, so as not to mess with the war paint, and cut him off.

"Wait a minute, you ass. Did you cut the tape? Please tell me that you cut the tape before speaking to me. Good fucking God, if you tell me you didn't cut that tape my foot is going to be shoved so far up your ass it'll be out of your mouth. And I mean that."

"Yes C-cioccolata! I did! I did cut the tape! But listen! _Just listen to me!" _He waved his arms around frantically like he was hailing a cab, but his master was just 3 feet away from him now.

Cioccolata glared at him still, losing his patience. "Well? Go on. Try again!"

Secco continued now, with much less stuttering. "C-can I fuck her pussy? P-please?" He bowed his body down, forming his hands in prayer.

"No, you can't. Does this bitch look like she can handle anymore to you?"

Secco looked over at her as if he wasn't recording her being beaten, whipped and raped for the last forty-five minutes. Then he faced Cioccolata again. He crawled on all fours closer to him and began kissing his loafers.

"Oh please, Cioccolata… P-please Cioccolata, I-I… I'll even trade it for sweet things… Yeah, I won't bother you for them at all for the whole night! Please!"

This act did appease him, and he thought it was rather cute of Secco. He viewed it the same as any pet owner would, on normal circumstances. It worked to pull at his heart strings, but he didn't let on. If there was any flash of tenderness in his eyes, it was gone the moment it came. One thing that could be said about Cioccolata, was that he was a loving pet-owner.

"Fuck her then. She can barely breath though. She was your pick. If she dies, it's your fault. I don't care if she does at all, but I know you will."

Secco pounced up in the air, waving his arms like a child and going "Yyyyesss!" Then he looked at the auburn hanging from her restrains, suddenly as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

Cioccolata returned on his feet, shook out his legs and stretched like nothing sinister happened down here. He smiled looking down at Secco's zeal, who now had his face stuck between the auburn's ass cheeks, licking up Cioccolata's cum dripping out. He was on all fours still, with his own ass in the air.

Cioccolata erupted in sinister laughter at it. It looked so pathetic to see a man like that, if you could even call Secco that anymore. He then turned to taunt Secco.

"You're that grateful to me that I allowed this that the first thing you do is drink up my jizz, eh? You little rascal." His tone sweetened now, turning to chocolate like his alias.

Secco was so lost in drinking up cum that he didn't even reply. _What a nasty boy_, he thought.

Cioccolata went to exit the cell, and on the way out he spoke to Secco again, "You can record yourself if you want to and I'll watch it later, okay? I'm heading up."

Secco nodded furiously and gleefully at the same time, and he already had his dick out and was ready to mount the auburn. They had an agreement indeed, that Cioccolata would watch it while filming, but he wasn't caring too much for it as of now. He had his fill of her. Besides, there will be more opportunities. And Secco was so excited that he clearly forgot it. He did at least, record him ravaging her pussy with his fingers earlier, so it was still something.

Cioccolata took that brief moment to examine the auburn's face again, taking her chin in his hands. She had dark bruises forming under her eyes now. She was still breathing, and that was good.

"You did good, slave. Very good. Excellent. I will fix you tomorrow, since you were a good girl and redeemed yourself, okay?" He patted her cheek with his hand as a way of saying farewell, then exited the cell. As he was in the main walkway of the cells, his eyes rested on the blonde's cell which was in front of the auburn's cell, but down the way just a bit more.

On normal circumstances, especially after anal, Cioccolata would want to wash his dick at the least. Indeed, it was what he was fixed on doing. His mind was set on doing so from the moment he raised to his feet after fucking the auburn. Apparently, his body had other plans.

He stood for a moment longer as his mind drifted off to wondering if she had seen any of that. Surely, she had heard it. Then he remembered his initial excitement of knowing when he opened the cell door to play with the auburn about an hour ago, that the blonde was likely awakened. His black lips formed a sinister smirk and no sooner that he did, he felt a stirring in his loins.

Now he knew just what he would do. His sneaky excitement mirrored his prepubescent sexuality. The idea that he could just jump from nailing one woman to the next was exhilarating. Maybe he'd make the blonde taste the auburn's shit. He was curious to see if she would notice the taste.

And that decided his next course of action. As the auburn's muffled groans of agony encircled the dungeon air yet again, Cioccolata slithered to the blonde's cell next.

.

Big Papà Cioccolata opened, with anticipation, the cell door to the blonde. He jingled the keys with puerile intention, wanting his entrance to be as known to her as possible. He watched her between the bars and chuckled in his throat. She laid there on the cold dark floor, leaning her weight on one hip. Her arm was stretched and leaning herself up to support her body. A pose like this, in normal circumstances, would look quite seductive of a woman, and she faced the cell doors as if she were waiting for him. But her face belied the body language. It was stricken with morbid dread.

Cioccolata was grinning from ear to ear in response, his thin brows were furrowed above his maddened green eyes. "You were waiting for Papà weren't you, little slave?" he teased.

Her turquoise eyes had barely a recognition in them, as if no one was home already. She looked quite defeated.

He opened the door finally, stepping forward, then examining her body again, which now squirmed backwards in tune of reflex than hope for escape. He watched as her long thin legs revealed, with shame, that pink little pussy he had deflowered a few days ago.

The rest of her skinny body was wrapped in the same ill-fitting hospital gown as the auburn had. Her miniature breast was hidden well, looking to be flattened at the chest. As he raped her again with his eyes, he reminisced in perverted delight in thinking that him taking her virginity will have altered her hips a bit, widen them a bit more. If he keeps taking her regularly, this will certainly be the case. Not only that, but he fancied that he initiated her into the final step of womanhood, and this made him feel quite pleased of himself.

Now he approached her until he stood above her. Taking a load of her naturally platinum blonde hair between his finger, he used his other hand to caress her cheek, whilst tilting it up to meet his face.

Her blue eyes met his green reluctantly. She didn't regard him in that same way she had after he last finished with her. It was nothing but the old fear like last time. If he hurt her again, will she look the same as that wonderful night? In that moment, he didn't care that he didn't have his camera. He didn't need to record this. He just wanted to fuck her face for a solid 3 minutes and he'd be pleased with that.

He then proceeded to drag her across the cell by her hair, barely giving her enough time to aid herself by lifting her bottom up to save from the burn. Even so, the way he dragged her backward left her no chance to correct herself. He pulled her across toward the cell bars like a caveman, and all actions of hers done out of reflex, all primal. She held at his hand with both of hers only to try to ease the tug, barely noticing the rough and cold feel which made up the surface layer of his epidermis. Nothing escaped her more through this process, than a reactionary yelp and gasps as her ass fell to the ground. Unlike the auburn, the blonde was relatively cooperative, and as of now, the auburn was heard grunting in renewed pain.

Once at the bars, Cioccolata used rope already set aside in the corner to tie her wrists above her head, similarly to last time with the exception of medical restraints. He made quick work of her wrists, securing them both with a surgical knot. The speed with which he did so was phenomenal, but easily explained as it was common procedure in his previous profession and training.

Cioccolata was contented for a moment as he tightened the knot, and in this mood, he spoke to the blonde again.

"I'm quite pleased with you. Despite me dragging you like that; you didn't claw at my hands like I've grown accustomed to with my victims…" _Or shouldn't I? _He wondered momentarily.

For one not to fight back, to not resist, denotes a weak will, a decrepit spirit. Yet he did not get that sense at all, that the blonde slave of his was of poor stock. The blonde's mannerisms at times, as well as her eyes seemed to imply that she had already lost hope; yet her spirit felt strong. What could explain this curious paradox?

But this analysis of her by him led him into a greater question: which did he enjoy more? Was it their resistance and heightened hope for their life eclipsed by despair, or was it that moment that despair devoured their remaining hope to their surrender—overwhelmed by the cavernous reality he bathed them in? He knew very easily he preferred the latter, but the second phase of these energy exchanges couldn't be complete without the first.

With these thoughts, he concluded, speaking aloud, "Although, either way, I wouldn't be displeased." His crazy smile beamed, but the blonde didn't seem to reciprocate the obvious joy. Maybe she was missing something here.

He straightened himself and admired his work. Her wrists were now secured to the bars, only just a bit above her head. She was forced to place her weight on her calves. With that, she was at just the right height for what he had planned, as expected.

There was more he could do really. He could settle for just the light bondage this time. But there was just another thing he wanted to do to make his slave into a bigger cock-tease than what she already was.

He produced from one of his pant pockets a spare scalpel he carries with him, no need to wonder why.

As soon as the blonde seen it, her face was lit with terror. Her breathing hitched, her diaphragm pulled in and out. It turned him on, so he let her frenzy continue, not disclosing his actual intention.

Cioccolata knelt to his knees and soaked in her bewildered eyes, which flashed in a way that reminded him almost of betrayal. Her eyes were filling, and she began a quiet whimper. She was like a prey who knew her end had come, and so she didn't struggle much. But he had no intent on killing her, only to frighten her. He then carefully took the top of her gown, and ran the sharpened blade down on the fabric, which spread between the blade like butter.

The blade passed between her breast, with it, revealing milk white skin and an alluring collar bone. When he was just at her breast, he saw her breathing had relaxed, but not by much that would cease to give him trouble down the line.

"Hold your breath," he commanded.

And she did.

"Good girl." He passed over her ribs and belly then without cutting her. What if he did cut her though? Really, it would have been nice to mark her more visibly, he'd really love to. However, you could say that her "slave training" in obedience is what saved her from this.

With that, the gown was cut down the middle, opened to reveal breast, protruding ribs, a flattened belly, succulent thighs, and of course, her tight female sex.

Her being much smaller than the auburn allowed for this type of removal of the gown, as there was enough space to not make the gown completely glued to her skin as it mostly was on the auburn.

The blonde's doll face looked almost relieved, but her eyes looked all around her, anywhere but at the man who had exploited her yet again. A horizontal crimson flush plastered over her cheeks and nose. A single pink cloud also formed on her chest, just below her neck, with her throat also glowing somewhat in a similar hue.

It was a sight of confirmation for Cioccolata, who reveled in the human body's alerts and betrayals. Yes, he could settle for this, this clear discomfit that enveloped her person. He dreamed of this, really. A time in his life where he would be able to freely play out all his fantasies, no barriers. He didn't need anyone's permission, or a social construct to hinder him. His pernickety ways on the matter didn't help him at all when it came to this conundrum; even now, he wanted to see more bondage on her. She seemed already terrified, and it was true, less was more—especially in this inimical circumstance.

He was shot with wicked delight at it. He gawked at the girl, transfixed with her helpless body, her arms splayed before her. She had a mighty fine white body, still somewhat premature. She was a woman now, biologically speaking—but not yet a woman, at the same time. Did fucking her once hold much of a weight to her innocence? It didn't. He was overwhelmed with the need to corrupt this young female, still as ripe as a freshly picked fruit.

He honed into her, his warm breath fuming over her shoulder blades again; all thermoreceptors standing on end so to speak, for the dungeon was chilled. He wanted it this way, to keep it sterile. He really did it for his slave's well-being, despite its discomfort for them.

Her blood vessels constricted responsively, the fine blonde hairs of her body heeded his proximity, she felt them even down to her thighs. He was kneeling over her, one knee on the stone, and it was placed between the small gap of her thighs. She wouldn't look at him, her shame weighed upon her like mental shackles. Her body betrayed this all the while; the nubs of her bare breast hardened with the mixture of cool air, and the heat radiating from his chest like a personal furnace. Despite how sick it all felt, how terrifying it was, it couldn't be denied that she craved that warmth.

She kept her head down, squeezing her eyes shut, whilst her heart hammered, the increase in blood pressure couldn't save the chill in her body. It was a truly malefic thing. Something that could only be described to her psyche as being straight out of hell was looming over her, and she could feel that his eyes were boring into her quietly, only hearing his breath. She couldn't understand how a monster could even breathe; how could it be alive? It seemed like a paradox that such evil could have human shapes, that it could even possess a heart…

It continued like this for just a minute, hearing only the sobs of the woman in the background, and the man's relaxed inhale and exhale. His breath hit her still like the exhalation through the nostrils of a beast—a demon at best, but the devil at worst. But for Cioccolata, he was fully and automatically in tune with the playing out of his fantasy; this was all just an act, it could be called roleplay, but it was far too real for him. He was completely absorbed now, almost as if he were hypnotized, and he viewed it as the doing of the blonde and not of his own perversions.

His left hand creeped between her thighs, and it pushed them aside further than they already were. He couldn't resist it, for he was a still a man. His hand trailed up her thigh and cupped her waist briefly. His fingers could just reach the lining of her naval. Her renewed light whimpers, and the auburn's screams of pain egged him like nothing else. To anyone else, this dungeon would have sounded like a small portion of hell, but to him, it was his home.

As of now, the blonde's nipples were hardened to the point of pain. They erected further to each bit of heat they could garner from Cioccolata. Yet, despite how appealing they were, he resisted the urge to grab them, only for the goal in mind that he wished not to relieve their soreness.

When he was done fondling her briefly, drinking her fearful whines, he tilted her chin up, forcing her not only to see him face to face, but shoot his crimson breath against her lips. Her eyes were incredibly reluctant, as they trailed from his chin, along his jaw line, where they lingered. She felt paralyzed to look even higher, seeing even just the pointed tips at the end of his face paint felt horrible enough. Her body was reeling on the other hand, feeling his warmth on her thigh and waist, and now his face…it tormented her.

Just then, in the corner of her eye, she saw his lips part, the bold white of his teeth revealing itself—such an amazing contrast to his black lips. He was getting ready to speak, but not quite yet. It all seemed so dragged out, either he intended to do so, or the rush of her sympathetic nervous system gave the illusion of time moving slowly. Each second passed ever more maddeningly. Her lips began to quiver in response. Her arms would shake, if they were not so tightly restrained above her.

With the slight parting of his teeth came the gentle, slightly audible exhales.

_"Fammi vedere i tuoi occhi blu." _He spoke finally, but he enunciated each word carefully and coolly; Italian vowels pronounced with perfect stress and emphasis.

She felt her heart make a tight squeeze, and the undeniable pulse of blood leaving her arteries. In just one moment, everything moved in a dream like state, and now it was back to hyper motion. In response, she squeezed her eyes shut, one last time, before attempting to trail her eyes up the length of his face, looking large over hers. The only thing that surprisingly was able to help her, was the markings of his cheeks. Her eyes trailed up the forest green lineation of his left cheek, guiding her on dutifully.

He hummed in his throat slightly, just barely audible, as he profiled her attempt. He was pleased indeed, because he could see that she was already turning out to be an obedient pet, just as he pictured her from the start. Nothing felt better than when his predictions came to fruition. From here on he would envision greater things for her.

That is…the day she will, not only willingly submit to him, but welcome him between her legs. Surely, without a doubt, it'll happen. He will be right—he always was.

And now, all he had to do, was continue out his fantasy, as well as make all the right moves in order to embed himself further into her memory. If done properly, it will haunt her for the entirety of her dungeon time.

He produced once more, the scalpel in his right hand, and snuck the point of the blade to her cheek, just as her eyes met his. The blade was nowhere near being dull, and he pressed it into her cheek. He now used his left hand to hold her face in place, which instinctually flinched. Her eyes darted to it, but quickly to his eyes once more, as if they were trying to ascertain his direction in the action.

"I've been waiting to train you again," He whispered low.

Yes, it had been almost a week since he introduced himself to her…personally. Now they have the time to get to know each other again. It was good timing; all this foreplay had reignited his lust. His dick was hard and ready to go again.

When the blonde absorbed the chill of the scalpel along with its blade pushing into her, she kept her face rock still, despite how gelatinous her entire body felt. Her eyes pleaded with his silently, yet somewhat reservedly. She wore terror beautifully, as if she were concerned with going out with dignity. It fed Cioccolata's appetite well enough, it in fact sated him quite well. He didn't intend on driving his blade into her soft cheek, but it did graze it, and she felt the initial sting.

Oh, those eyes were simply something else to him. He felt the need to be inside her again, but yet…he wanted to save it. When he withdrew the scalpel, she closed her eyes momentarily, gulping and regaining somewhat of a bearing. Afterward however, she resumed their eye contact, knowing well enough that it was an order.

The cold, slightly calloused hand hovered between her legs once more. She felt the chill. That was bad enough, but then she gasped as she felt his fingers capture her clitoris with predatory precision. He began fondling it from there, gently running the flesh between just his pointer and middle fingers. Her body had never been more perplexed. Blood rushed to her female organ, enlarging her clit in arousal. She gasped again when she recognized what was happening, her eyes shot down in shame, and she focused her vision on his thigh, seeing in her periphery his arm moving with the slight motion.

"Hmm.." He gauged her. It was entertaining to him, to see just how simple all women were.

She prayed that it would end, and it did not long after it began. He lifted his fingers to his nose, directly before her, and visibly inhaled. His nostrils flared, taking in her pheromones. He let his hand drop, and when he did, he leaned into her ear, while she watched him in shock the entire time.

_"Sì…" _His volume was just right, the simple syllable lulled into the canal of her ear without any restraint or distortion. Her stomach dropped then and there, as she saw him stand back up soon after.

Once risen, she could see clearly the tent in his white pants… the same outfit she saw him wearing a month ago. And he wasted no time at that, as soon as she saw his hand go toward his erection, she had a bad feeling about what would happen next.

Sure enough, she watched him unzip the fly, and thereby expose himself to her.

She whimpered at the shock of it, she let her face fall. She didn't want to start pleading, she didn't want to turn into the woman who was raped in the cell almost directly across from her own. This entire time, she maintained her composure and cooperated as best as she could. But now, she felt herself begin to come apart at the seams. Each slight hope pattered around her conscience…but there wasn't much hope to start with.

Almost as if at the thought of her, the auburn scream echoed loudly through the stone cellar, the stone playpen that was Cioccolata's.

Cioccolata commented on it, having seen the blonde's recognition.

"Yes, she's a noisy one. Unlike you." He ran his hand along the length of his cock now, and he took one step closer to the blonde. That was all he needed for the impressive length to meet her face. He pulled his foreskin back, and the head of his dull pink dick throbbed into her cheek. Precum was already seeping out, leaving a circle of secretion on her cheek as if it were to be implemented into her skin care routine. Cioccolata was enough of a strange pervert that he'd probably approve of such a quack pharmacology.

Nothing was better than seeing someone below him. The height difference was perfect. He would have no trouble at all fucking her little mouth like this. She had better bucker those sweet pink lips. But her whimpers were becoming more audible, not merely mumbles. He commented on this fact too.

"If you think this is so bad, my pet, then I must say, there's many things about me that you don't know."

She gazed into his eyes again, but what she saw only disturbed her. His eyes appeared much further away than what they physically already were. That is to say, it wasn't just about the physicality—there was just nobody there, behind those eyes. It was lacking; a driver behind the wheel, yet without a face. Horror filled her chest, and she began heaving. Despair began to soon overtake her as she realized that if she didn't do exactly as this man said, there was little room for emotionality in him to keep him from causing her bodily harm. The jade eyes of this man told her that its owner lived for cruelty and not much else.

_"Interessante… _That expression. Does the source of it stem from your acceptance of the hopelessness in your predicament? Does it creep beneath of the recesses of your mind, much like how my dick slowly trails to your ruby lips?" He said this, and true to his word, his glans did indeed move ever closer to her lips, leaving its snail trail of precum on her cheek.

Her whimpers became slightly more audible, and it was music to his ears for this slave, who always did her best to conceal them. He slowed his trajectory as much he could, but he soon found the finitude of the action once his dick parted her lips.

He let out a slight sigh once graced with the wetness of her tongue, her mouth parting with reluctance—but still the proper submission he had expected to see.

He braced her jaw in his hand, propelled himself further in, slowly, and slower still until he felt he filled her throat. He motioned his hips gently just to tease, as if he were settling and making himself completely comfortable.

"…That nothing, nor anyone will ever save you from me, or _this,_" He groaned, adding into his previously abandoned statement.

He dragged his next breath out between his teeth as he checked her expression, which again, did not fail to pleasure him. It gave him all that he needed to begin thrusting into her face agonizingly slow up to his hilt. He didn't stop until he felt the tip of her cute little nose rest firm into his naval.

_"Sì…Sì…"_ He lightly panted, _"Prendi tutto quel cazzo."_

It was a joy to hear her only reply being the labored inhales through her flared nostrils—taking her opportunity only when she could—when he had pulled out of her throat. He noted everything, seeing how she dug her nails into her palms as he just so much as grazed past her tonsils; loving how she braced herself each time.

"Don't worry…You see, Papà will give you a chance to breathe…" And he said this genuinely, as he really did grant her this favor.

Before long he was dizzily fucking her face, hardly stopping to give her a breath despite his previous affirmation of the alleged fact. Her expression was priceless and told him all that he needed to know by way of torment. But what set the mood brighter for him, was the exquisite sound of the auburn's cries echoing the dungeon walls and filling his mind's eye of her condition to the point that it was almost aromatic. Hearing this and seeing this; it gave him just the right ammunition to rend the blonde's jaws weak until he was mended of his heavy load—the contents oozing down her wearied throat.

The moment was savory for him, and he smiled down at her with the same self-satisfied look of content one has after eating a hearty meal. She on the other hand, regarded him with eyes not far from a travailing woman—fittingly so, as she was destined for this fate just as well.

"How did you like that taste of me? I would tell you to savor it, but it's not like you wouldn't be having a taste of it anytime soon…Far from it," said a surprisingly sated Cioccolata, and he hissed as he withdrew his dick, feeling her lips graze past the frenulum.

Indeed, he might even say he was settled; time to call it a night. He released the blonde of her bindings, and watched her sink as she sat, spiritually defeated. Always a good sight when he could have it! He even filled the time it took to tuck his dick back, adjusting his trousers and securing the fly with observing her pathetic demeanor.

Her hair shrouded her downcast face, long golden tendrils which did well in covering her tinted rose cheeks, shell-shocked, Aquarian eyes and the shame which came to be their lord. Her knees were bent, and her breast were still showcased neatly between the slit of the hospital gown. Regarding her like this, he held briefly the image of a ragged, fallen Minerva, or Ishtar, torn from the triad and thus festooned with misery.

The word used was "briefly," because Cioccolata simply never entertained the idea of unbroken women being comparable to goddesses. Once yoked however, then he may dance with the idea during a future session. And what else, ere the day of breaking the psyches of these women—and the other six he would somehow, someway acquire—was there to appreciate? Only of course, the prelude of perfect subjugation.

He witnessed this even with how readily she moved when he told her to, so that he may stand upon the threshold of the cell. He made his way out of it in just another stride, not without glaring at her with crazed eyes whilst swinging that single deadly key around his pointer as a way of speaking for his amused mind. Once bored, he shoved them back into his trouser pocket as he took a final moment to eyeball what he hoped would turn out to be his most perfect pet.

"You may yet wear submission just as well as I wear sadism…" While he said this just as a comment of his experiences thus far, he did mean it genuinely.

Imparting the subject with some epigrams, was, so he had discovered with Secco, a necessary condiment which made the breaking of one's mind all the more savory. Secco provided Cioccolata with the outline of the proper method; what could be accomplished with a man exceedingly well, was thus common sense that it could also be applied to the mentally feeble—the women.

As he strode past the auburn's cell, he was pleased to see Secco was finished his romping, and it certainly explained the silence he had heard for a good few minutes before he himself had finished.

"Good boy, Secco. You finished even before me! How about another treat then…" He said jovially as he began rustling in his other pant pocket.

Secco was all tongue and ears waiting for the treat he knew too well, he scurried on his knees at a distance, affixed himself in a position poised for the coming throw. He wasn't expecting this, as he had previously willingly forgone the promise of cubes. Cioccolata found this to be a more exciting challenge for his pitch of the cube, as he had obstacles—the finely spaced bars of the cell and the auburn, her wrists still stretching upward and tied to them.

Women greatly outnumber the men in nature—who could find fault in using them for target practice? It was this mold-maniac who thought this, and he had fun with the notion as he continually harassed the petrified woman with full strength mock throws. He lifted his leg even as if he would truly pitch, slammed down the sole of his loafer into the stone floor with a thud, swing his arm around, yet did not release the two cubes from the propellent which would drive them right into the auburn's pretty face.

He let out a growl and a riveting roar of laughter each time he fooled her, enjoying her screams and the sways of her melons as she attempted to fruitlessly dodge her face from the perceived blows.

"HAHAHAH! I'm gonna throw it…! _I'm gonna throooooow it!" _He teased, needless to say, sadistically.

"NO! NO! STOP!" She cried.

In all honesty, it was a wonder that she even had the energy after this session to entertain him. But it was only a boon for Cioccolata; it'd be no fun throwing sugar cubes at a knocked-out slave.

And Secco…he wasn't entirely pleased, certainly not as much as Cioccolata was. He needed them cubes and he needed them _now. _He was inclined to start his growling if his owner didn't calm down and focus on the purpose for his bringing up the treats.

After finally fulfilling the promise of his play with auburn—smashing her face in with a sugar cube, he finally went about throwing two cubes to Secco; a partial success. While one of the cubes flew perfectly through the space between the bars, another must have hit the bar, and on account of Newtonian law, plummeted down on the auburn's head. Talk about a double whammy.

"But wait, there's more," Cioccolata rejoined, feeling quite pleased to manipulate a late-night commercial slogan of the time period in one of the most awful ways.

He passed through the cell with it's giddy and giggling Secco in the crevice and went on to untether the auburn. He flung her on her back in what might have looked like round 5 for her session but was merely a parting gift from her permanent confectioner. He roughly spread apart her bruised and swollen pussy lips only to shove a sugar cube deep inside. She screeched in renewed agony as the rough granules of the condensed sugar grated against her already sanded vaginal lining.

"_I'm curious_ to see how many you can hold up there. Let's say we find out?" He asked, but it hardly was a question so much as a sentence.

He ordered Secco back around with the camera, as he went about his grotesque and humiliating experiment. He shook the box in his hand after each cube he placed inside her—an effect on the auburn that was entirely intentional coming from Cioccolata. Surely she would always recall the wretched sounds of those shifts in position. The camera poised above her hardly added to her terror anymore; she was already used to it.

"Only four cubes so far…_interssante,_" He commented, licking his lips at the sight of her spread legs and reddened pussy now flooded with sweet things other than he and Secco's cum. He then continued where he left off.

"I find it interesting that the average length of a vaginal canal is about 3 and half to 4 inches, and only lengthens to about another inch, to an inch and half at arousal." He took out some more cubes, clearly not finished with his now balling project.

"…So why is it that all women ever talk about is the magnitude of a man's package? Considering that the average length for a male is 5 to 6 inches, this shouldn't be a problem—an average man therefore has more than enough to satisfy a woman." His eyes were mad, and it almost seemed that his hatred for the lesser sex colored his rant, until it became clear his intent in this torture came from a place not just concerned with sadistic delight.

"I've stacked those cubes in your hole to measure about 3 and half inches. I would have stopped there, figuring you have no more room. _But_ maybe I should stack them to twelve inches. That's the magic number, yes?" He chuckled darkly.

In truth, Cioccolata pondered the likelihood of explanation for this seemingly counter-intuitive pattern of women's preferences through evolutionary biology. Indeed, a male with a larger penis should be bestowed higher likelihood to impregnate her—thus, the woman's longing for a larger member may have roots in that intuition. Regardless, it was fun to bring up the query just to boggle the receiver which was the auburn.

So, he continued to shove more cubes in her tormented pussy, in all, producing a horrid experience of rough fingering with the misuse of sweet treats. By the time he was finished, he managed to clog her canal with 13 stacked cubes, as he then went on to fill the girth of this plastered sugar dick.

He teased her still as he used his fingers to stretch her out horizontally, "You needn't worry about getting a yeast infection from this, you'll have one down here in no time with or without."

She never ceased her crying and moaning, and he never ceased his lewd chuckles as he took the liberty of playing with her clit. "_Dai amore,_ suck up them cubes," he added as he circled his pads over her tiny, completely unaroused nub.

He knew exactly what he was doing. By forcefully stimulating her clit, her walls tightened around the stacked and now thickened mess of the sugar overload which the yeast would soon be reveling in. With this continued prodding, it was only a matter of time before she was flung into an arousal she fought against. To make matters worse, the sight was becoming too much for poor Secco, who now slithered one of his hands over her breasts and twisting her nipples.

"OOhhh god nooo, no, no! _Mamma mia!" _She wept above herself at the two perverse men and the aperture of the camcorder—it would be a clear, beautiful shot of distress for him to look back on later.

"_Mamma mia _indeed…My little _giovenca _is enjoying herself," his voice, low with the rush of testosterone droned.

And it was true, something low in the auburn's weeps revealed itself to be clear feminine arousal. It was only so long that any woman, freedwoman or slave, could resist those expert fingers of the former doctor—Dr. Feelgood.

"Now that you're all hot and wet, I'm sure it's helped dull the edges of those cubes, perhaps some are even melting…" He used his other hand to make a gentle rap at the cubes lightly tracing her entrance, "Secco, why don't you eat them out of her?" He suggested, knowing damn well it was an order.

If there was ever a time Secco needed to be told to do something twice, this order would be at the bottom of that list. He was already enjoying this too much, so he swung around, and got to eating, all the while keeping the camera still. Cioccolata simultaneously kept up the torment at her clit, testing her reflexes of what she did and did not want with his motions by randomly lessening the intensity—noting her body language as the indicator.

"Auuugh!" She would cry if he strayed his focus from a particular movement, and her hips inclined in response. This is how he knew she wanted it. This is what he continued. And to aid, Secco's cube thievery left her pussy clinging onto what it still occupied with desperation. It pushed her shamefully forward in this conflict of who would win the cube. His inexplicably long tongue lapped deep inside her with increasing ferocity, hot huffs of air hit her sensitive skin from his nostrils. And finally, Cioccolata busied himself pulling and squeezing her light, bright brown nipples.

"AUUGHH! AAAHHHH! PLEEAASE—" She let out finally as she came around her artificial sugar dick that was still slowly being consumed by the human dog between her legs. Her moans swallowed up Cioccolata's praises, both of genuine compliment and admonishment.

"Stop, you're done now. I don't need you bouncing off the walls all night…" Cioccolata, addressing Secco, muttered in delight and he absorbed his slave's lingering expressions of ashamed ecstasy.

It was a wild night for these two slaves (though far worse for the auburn), and they certainly didn't need much more. But that wasn't the question here. The question was if Cioccolata needed much more, and to that question there was a very relieving answer: he was calling it a night.

As he summoned Secco, locked the cell and took his leave with all the proper partings, he was content to say, unlike other times of his life…that it was _now _a wonderful time to be alive.

.


	8. Chapter 8

_D'you get scared to feel so much?_

_To let somebody touch you?_

_So hot, so cold, so far so out of control_

_Hard to come by, and harder to hold. ~More, Sisters of Mercy_

* * *

**.**

**Capitolo VIII:**

_**-**__Auto-Quarantena__**-**_

The Passione family was unlike any crime syndicate in Italy before the mid '80s. After the Boss came to power in 1986, all other families closest to their headquarters, including the one Olivio was a part of, were absorbed into Passione. It could be speculated that all early members, more likely than not, did not pass the lighter test. Cioccolata often wondered if Olivio and his men were taken in, were they reborn as stand users? Of course, given Cioccolata's status, he had the power to search the database given their names. However, he knew them to be aliases, and it wouldn't be unheard of for a mafioso to make a new one. It's very possible these men could have changed them after being reborn —if they were fortunate enough to.

Olivio struck Cioccolata as the youngest, looking back. If he _were _in Passione somewhere, he would be 38 now, which means the other men, especially Lino, who he remembered was certainly the oldest, would be much older by now. Cioccolata understood that for saldatos in particular, living well into the 30s and beyond was a blessing. Many men died in their 20s, let alone past their primes, when their stamina and wits began depleting. He had a feeling Lino then was dead, and very likely, Chia and Pepe. _Especially Pepe…_

All men in their business, at least ideally, did not fear death. Even the saldatos and hitmen, who were more susceptible to such a fate. If the men had high status within the family, such that Cioccolata enjoyed, then the risk of death was much further. In fact, men of Cioccolata's status within the elite came second to the consigliere—a man shrouded in as much mystery as the Boss himself. He understood as well that it was this man whom he had taken direct orders from, not the Boss.

Cioccolata was 19 when the family of Passione came into existence in Naples, which means Olivio would have been 25. He left room in his mind for the possibility that Olivio could have been involved with the few other major gangs, especially since he seemed seated in Rome…but one always had to wonder. Given the location of Passione's founding, Cioccolata often let the thought go not long after prodding it, for good reason.

For all he knew, Olivio may very well had been dead, maybe he didn't even make it to 30! True enough, there was a lot of bad blood naturally between them. Cioccolata's only purpose in wondering if Olivio was alive and within Passione was because he thought he would stalk and murder him if he confirmed such a fact. If Olivio was a member of one of the other powerful gangs, he therefore did not possess a stand, so executing him was much easier. But Cioccolata also wasn't going to scour the entire country to find him, it would certainly draw attention to the Boss, who he knew to be very low key.

Still, despite the turn of the relationship, Cioccolata was grateful to Olivio. Because of him, he was able to grow and experience things that were needed for his evolution. And thanks to him, he was able to mingle in the BDSM scene during his teens and twenties (given what happened, he didn't return to Rome in such a way until his late teens). He even gathered somewhat of a reputation within the subculture. Women desired him, but naturally, because of how extreme Cioccolata was with his tastes in the play, namely the blood play, he only had five loyal submissives that consented. That's not to say he didn't get around. He just toned down for others.

The thought of stalking and hunting down Olivio was very much an exciting one for Cioccolata. Primal play was another of his major fetishes after all, and everyone knows that fetishes have something to say for a person's worldview and deep imbedded desires. It was the whole purpose behind the development of his alias/persona—Cioccolata and the predatory face paint; meant to strike fear in his prey. Weakness was something that disgusted him, and in such a case, he saw absolutely nothing wrong with what he did. They deserved to die, not just because they were weak, but because it was _natural. _This was Cioccolata's way of bringing the laws of Nature to life for humans, as it was once was, as it truly is, for the entire animal kingdom.

This persona of his took a more solid formation after a combination of experiences. After discovering how thrilling it was to finally be able to make his first snuff films, he decided he would study to become a doctor. If he were a doctor, he could operate on patients, and watch how they die. It would be ten times better than experimenting on non-humans, (or those already on their death bed). Not only that, but they made great money. In no time, he would be able to set up the type of life he wanted. He wanted to be a grand master and own many slaves.

If he could, he'd want a plantation full of sex slaves. That would be the dream. To have the best of both worlds. Collecting slaves, making snuff films and home-made porn of his own. He also put thought into children with his idea. He was only interested in having them to carry on his line of prodigy. Surely, a man like him deserved that. But he doubted he was going to get married, so he decided that he could select the strongest of his slaves, essentially his courtesans, to carry his seed.

He knew, at the time he was thinking about it while he was a teen and young adult, that in the moment, he was getting in over his head. Before he knew it, obtaining his doctorates became his life. He had no time for anything else, for the following eight years. He had a lot of dry spells in his sex life during that time as a result.

His reemergence into the scenes at twenty reignited interest in him, as there were many who remembered him from years ago, even as far back as fourteen. From 1993 until 1999 he was much more polyamorous than ever before. Where he had maintained a steady submissive every now and then throughout the 80s (much of the sex was through swingers' parties), he had subs crawling out of the woodwork for him. It rather started to become a chore, rather hard to keep up with, and that was when his balance of work life and sex life got harder…

Cioccolata's experience volunteering for the elderly had indeed opened his eyes, but time management in the pursuit of his career was crucial and became even more so after he entered the field. It was only slightly challenging for him, but he made the adjustment and still maintained his entertainment. Albeit, he had had the most sex from fourteen, though typically during his school breaks, on until around 23, when his education toward his doctorates got much more intense. Not only that, but he went to one of the best med schools in the country, so naturally the workload was more intense. For the first time, the education began to challenge him mentally.

By 25, when he was in the field, not only was he on his way to doing what he loved most, but he was able to enjoy a more regular sex life once again. At this time, he was working on completing his surgical residency, having obtained an M.D. hadn't a meaning until he completed the residency and licensing. And although during those five years he may have fancied himself a doctor already, he wasn't able to officially call himself one yet until he was thirty years old.

The hospital he transferred to at the time, including the one he worked in for his residency, were easy for him to land jobs in. His GPA, superb volunteer experience, and of course, the city's acknowledgment of his genius and work-ethic—all made his experience in medical school and residency that much easier.

He was also trusted that much more, privileged, you could say. As a result, once he was licensed at thirty, he was hardly ever checked up on. He had the most freedom for those brief two years before his termination. To think that his dreams could have been cut short by going to jail, if they had found out that he did indeed, kill his patients. They thought they got rid of him that day, and indeed, he wondered what he was going to do with his life, for some time afterward.

For three months, he thought hard every day about what he should do next. Luckily, he had amassed quite a fortune already to keep him well off during his period of unemployment, not counting the fortune inherited from his father. His license was revoked. He was barred from anything in the field of medicine. His career and all that he studied and worked in for the past thirteen years was through. He thought long and hard about other trades he could get into. He could do anything really, but he wanted to at least go somewhere he'd somewhat enjoy. He even thought about becoming a butcher, he was obviously great at it. One thing was for sure—he was in true despair—until Passione took him in and gave him another chance.

Ah, but looking back now—only ten months later—it was all now so worth it. It all happened for a reason. It all led him to even greater riches to make his dreams come true. Now he had a dungeon like he always wanted, and he had two slaves. This was just the beginning of his dream. It took some time for sure, but after long hardship, struggle, perseverance, and mental strength, he was at 32-years-old, living the dreams that most weak men are too afraid to strive for.

If he could have eight slaves, his dream would be realized completely. Eight was all he needed, and he would be satisfied. Imagine that… eight women _all _calling him Master Cioccolata…Just like in old times, with his submissives, except, this would be _real. _These women wouldn't be roleplaying; it would be _real! _

He spent such a great amount of time marveling in his memories and thinking on these accomplishments of his, that he felt compelled to write it all down. Yes, Cioccolata journaled! Of course he did! He was in the right spot to do so after all, seated at the desk of his study with a cup of coffee. It was 7 AM, the "thinking" hour. Cioccolata now woke up no later than 6 AM now that he was a mafioso, his 4 AM standard wake up time was no more; not counting his midnight calls. 6 may have still seemed early to many, especially since it was not required for him, however, waking up as late as 6 and getting a full night of undisturbed sleep was for him, a great boon.

Since he woke up this morning, he did his morning rituals, which were not different from many people! Imagine that! He washed up with a rag and brushed his teeth, without fail. Depending on how tired he was, he would alternate between splashing his face with cold water or messaging it with a warm rag. Doing so stimulates collagen production! At least…so they say. Cioccolata also used regular fluoride toothpaste, despite being a bit of a "conspiracy theorist" in some sense, he did _not _believe in the nonsense about fluoride closing the pineal gland. Those were some wild rumors, according to him. And if Cioccolata thinks this and says so, then it must be true. Sometimes he used baking soda to brush his teeth as well, call him old fashioned.

He also flossed regularly, but often he did not use mouthwash. He just couldn't get past that burn. And everyone who knew Cioccolata personally (only Secco at this point in time), knew that Cioccolata's comfort and happiness was paramount. He wasn't going to do _anything _that risked him discomfort or interfered with his routines. He was stuck in his ways and very grounded, unmalleable.

…And that wasn't the only thing that was unmalleable. So was his hair. It didn't necessarily appear this way, but even as a doctor and working on his residency, he did _not _brush it. The reason for it was because he noticed that if he did, it made his hair puff out into a thick and almost kinky, unkempt mess. It displeased him greatly, and he had his mother to thank for it. She too, had the exact same consistency to her hair, down to the rounded curled knots at the edges of the shaft.

Those curled balls were a whole other matter… had they not been there, he would have at least combed the ends of his hair, avoiding the roots, but if he brushed out those balls, he would be walking around looking like he suffered an electric shock. Each individual strand of his hair, like hers, was so thick, and like hers as well, he had _a lot _of it. The result of such thick head hair parted itself into its own layers which created uniquely distinguishable locks of hair that were seemingly hundreds of strands per piece.

The only way to battle the jungle of his hair was ironically, to let it grow, which was largely why his mother kept his hair shoulder/neck length at longest in early childhood. It was something he carried on into his teenage years. When he did his volunteer work at 14, he was able to get by with typing his hair back into a ponytail. However, he was beginning to notice some strange looks, especially when he went into healthcare. He decided to cut his hair to a more respectable length, but that turned out to be a huge mistake, to his dismay.

He should have known, and you would think he would have, that when you have such thick hair especially, cutting it shorter only makes it more unmanageable in all its volume. Of course, this was exactly the reason his mother did this! Even her, her hair was so incredibly long, even for a woman—past her hips! Despite its length, her hair also separated into distinguishable dark locks like his, with tightened ball like curls at the ends.

Cioccolata experienced a cognitive bumble whenever he thought about his hair. Did his mother have Sicilian in her line somewhere? If she did, it had to have been unknown to her…Or…was it something else…? Moroccan, maybe which would mean…. Arabic…

He shivered. He never wanted to speculate too long on his mother's line but given what he did know of where they had come from, it didn't make much sense to him. They were from central Italy! The thought of being anything else but Italian was concerning for him; as it would be for any proud racial type when faced with the possible evidence of miscegenation. And so, the last thing Cioccolata wanted to do was entertain the thought that he might have some Arabian knights in his ancestry. Anyway, even if this speculation were true, it surely would be very far back—perhaps as far as the Muslim invasions of Europe that prompted the well-deserved Crusades, very likely the only good thing that has ever come of medieval Christianity.

In any case, a close examination of his features would leave someone with knowledge in classifying European types to deduce that he was a Nordid-Atlantid type; examination of his skull would indicate he is meso-dolichocephalic. This was a common anthropological classification for middle Europeans, and a favorable one for an Italian who would often more typically see brachycephalic symmetries.

That aside, after cutting his hair, he tamed it only somewhat by using mousse and gel. The mousse made his hair look somewhat greasy, but it had to do, or he would have been unintentionally coming across as unprofessional. In all honesty, his attempts did not work, but luckily for him, his reputation as well as the leniency of the hospital he worked gave him leeway. The worst he was ever suggested to do was to straighten his hair. Otherwise, his hair wasn't a complete detriment to him. It seemed that his serpentine, Medusian locks were extremely attractive to women. Not one woman could refrain from touching it; in fact, even those he was not involved with.

He already was enough to knock a woman off her feet. Tall, golden tan, handsome, chiseled bone structure and dazzling green eyes—a rarity in itself, let alone the hair! He was quite used to a woman asking if she could touch his hair, and he enjoyed the look of fascination and amazement at a texture they weren't expecting. That is, while it was undoubtedly thick, and certainly felt that way if you actually tried to run a finger through a condensed lock, it was also was so soft and silky!

Yes…he had some good memories to thank his hair for. The women certainly loved to grab hold of his chromatin like mane whenever they were lucky enough to be granted his tongue at their entry…

Despite him being so comfortable with his life now in his early 30s, he still did not allow himself complete ease of mind. As mentioned, Cioccolata was a man who sometimes suffered some paranoia, though not in a schizotypal manner. It was largely due to the business he was in, along with the fact that he harbored the deep-seated desire to murder his Boss. With that longing came a type of watchfulness, as he committed to operating under the radar toward his goal.

He wasn't actively pursuing such a thing. Already, he had heard of those who tried and failed to uncover information on the Boss. Doing so in such a direct manner was not only foolish, it wasn't Cioccolata's style for something such as this. However, if the opportunity to take him in a direct hit presented itself, he would take it.

As such, sometimes when he entered his kingly bathroom in the upstairs hall of his estate, he looked around, even looking up at the ceiling. It was a small, cozy space to do his business, but assassins may lurk anywhere…Albeit, he never discovered any hitmen, but just that morning after doing his check, he did discover an itty-bitty spider dangling from its web over the toilet. Often he just peed in the morning, but if he _did _need to take a shit, then you might as well say that spider was some kind of hitman…

Since he discovered this spider when he was about to take a piss, the thought naturally risen that he may just happen to shoot the spider off its web from the stream. At the length it was at, he would not shoot down the spider. If the spider happened to descend its web, then he would surely hit it. So Cioccolata didn't even take his dick out. He wore one of his silk robes, a pale green, like he often wore in the morning with nothing on beneath it. With that said, relieving himself in the morning was quick business, yet he did not open his robe yet, (to the writer's dissatisfaction). Yes, he _was_ insane, but he did something only a sane man would do.

He grabbed a dixie cup from their holder on his sink and cupped the critter inside. In the meantime, he put it back on the sink, then did his business. The truth was this—Cioccolata never killed bugs unless it was absolutely necessary, which was a rare occasion. Well, for what reason would he have to? They were harmless! Anyway, he needed the spiders to rid him of any possible pests, so he told himself. They were _just like him_, predators.

His urine was a dark yellow due to his fasting. Soon enough however, and for much of the day, it would take on a light color; he was always hydrated. After he flushed the toilet, he went on to release the spider to the side of the commode. The tiny brown thing scurried away with comedic glee into a crack in the tiling. It was a precious life.

The rest of that hour includes the time of breaking his fast. When Cioccolata was a doctor, he had his coffee machine preset to make a pot by 4:15 AM, so that way by the time he was done freshening up, he would have his cup. He was often bringing it with him anyway. But not anymore! How nice it was now to enjoy a fresh cup at home, in his estate, his safe, happy place! His cave, his lair!

Back to the present moment, he found his journal within the desk drawer where he sat. He had a lock for his drawers, and this one especially was secret, for it was where he kept the ominous looking thing. It was an old-fashioned looking journal, with a thick spine, jacket, and a headband adorned with red ribbon; a lovely contrast to the ashy black. The paper inside the journal was smooth and glossy, a type of stone leaf which was complemented only by a black fountain pen.

Despite his former career, Cioccolata filled the pages with the most elegant cursive that it was hard to believe the hand of a man wrote it. Indeed, the writing was completely legible, even to those who had trouble deciphering cursive. As for details of the former contents until now, it was full of entries that could be expected of Cioccolata…

…His thoughts, feelings, accomplishments, goals, opinions, worldviews, beliefs—him, him, him, and more him! Rarely was a sentence formed without "I" and rarely did it trail away from its subject. His journal perfectly exemplified his self-adoration and puffing of his ego that it was almost silly to read back on sometimes; it even made _him _a bit flustered! Thank goodness no one else would ever read it!

He of course, had the writing style of a genius, mostly when it came to his more serious entries regarding his philosophies and worldviews…but in contrast, there was many entries full of dark and inappropriate humor accompanied by his attempts at smiley faces which would only leave an intruder of his journal to be perplexed as to the age of its author. But this wasn't the only thing which was mystifying about his journal…it was also the fact that it was highly disturbing. No surprise there, one could suppose. It was horror comedy at its finest really, its penman revealed without secret his cruel and sadistic nature, along with his unconventional and twisted mentality; seasoned with his lack of empathy and humanity in such a way one would favor the emotional immaturity portrayed in previous entries.

In summation, Cioccolata's journal was truly to be dubbed, "The dairy of a madman," and Ozzy in this case would be put to shame in comparison. His writing was without a doubt sophisticated at best, while absolutely absurd and erratic at worst; the polarity could literally be felt at the soul level…if this journal ever _did _receive a reader, only two possible scenarios could take place: they would either love him with cultish martyrdom, _or_ hate him as if he were a male incarnation of a fabled and propagandized immorality; _"the banality of evil,"_ as has been phrased…

Alas, it is true that a man is simply not doing anything right in his life if he is not both loved and hated; for it implied a shining, steadfast will which did not bend simply toward one's approval. It was right for Cioccolata to be this type of man.

And so, he held his fountain pen in such a way that looked artistic, similar to how he held the scalpel; his index smoothed gentle but firm over the pen's length. Without further ado, he got to writing!

_23, November 1999_

_The slave's training is going exceedingly well! I've already processed a couple of the footage from the dungeon, all because I just couldn't wait long to see it! I started getting so antsy that it was unbearable… _

_So far, of my two catches, I prefer the younger girl, the blonde. She's so lovely. It's so exquisite to observe how she endures the pain I give her. Each little gasp and squeak which escape her lips is music. Her naked body is a treat for me to look upon—her skin is white like alabaster, cheeks, breast and femininity dipped with alluring, fleshy pink…the flush of her blood vessels leaves me longing to mark her, to sever her wherever it pleases me…but I also can't bear to ruin such a beautiful thing. Ah, I think it best I leave her in the dungeon for now, and when she's ready to come up here, I'll just tie her up and stash her into one of my dressers. Wouldn't it be nice if women worked that way! _

_The other however, she's just trash! I only took her really because Secco wanted her. Now I'm wondering if I should just allow her to become his little plaything. She's caused me trouble and has made me quite unhappy. I feel like breaking her face. _

_At any rate, for now, I am satisfied with my catch. She is the reason I feel less inclined to put down the other one. Lucky bitch! _

_As for other personal comments, concerns… _

_I've often found myself thinking back to that time when I was 13. I wonder what it is? Could it be that I am just now bearing the first fruits to my dream of having a harem of lovely pets? Or maybe because it's just one-year shy of being 20 years ago now…_

_Whatever it is, I now reflect increasingly on that man Lino's words, the last words I do remember from him. He said that they didn't choose to become mafiosos, but their circumstances left them with no choice; it was fate. _

_It's amazing to see that after everything I have accomplished, I have also been left with the same fate. It is unavoidable, perhaps predetermined. Nevertheless, it cannot keep a king chained! _

_This is what I have convinced myself of, and it is the fact that all weaklings should rightfully be shackled and ground by destiny. What is left to believe in this world? Nothing at all, and it is an unchanging truth. We must be men however, and trod on, shaping fate with our hands, slicing her by the throat. We do Nature's bidding only when it pleases us, for she pleases us first; and our strength is rewarded through the dominion of the feeble. _

He stopped writing just then, as his thoughts trailed off. He looked past his shoulder and while his eyes at first lingered on his bookshelf, they descended to the pile of debris of what was once the king's foot stool. Even after these several months since he had that rare outburst, he never cleaned it up. It now prompted a sigh from the man, who wondered when he would sweep it up.

The mess was unsightly, but in all honesty, it never became an urgency in the man's mind, for he was the only one allowed in his study; only he had to see it.

He rose from his seat, shut his journal, and placed it gently back into the drawer where it belonged. He locked it soon after sliding it closed, then he took his coffee mug, a lime green color with a funny looking cartoon-germ on it. He had almost drunk the entirety of the coffee.

Moving on out of the study, into the hallway and down the stairs, it seemed like it would be a day not unlike any other for him. However, his mind changed once he made it to his kitchen and opened the fridge. He was running so low all of a sudden, that he didn't even realize that he hadn't even any cheese, milk or eggs!

_No, that's not good…_ he thought.

It only got worse when he opened the meat drawer.

Nothing. There was no meat in there. Not even hard salami.

He almost gasped at such a sight. He _could _admit this much: _sometimes _he may run out of cheeses, and sometimes he might run out of flour, but running out of meat was completely intolerable for him. He hardly ever ate a heavy meal without lean beef!

This was absolutely absurd, and there was no reason for it. How did he not notice this before he had his coffee? _Ah right_…because he surprisingly only had some donuts… it explained why he was hungry again so soon.

He drummed his fingertips on the fridge door as he peered through the shelves, inspecting the contents. There should be leftovers from last night here, he cooked last night, and there should be a decent sized bowl of stuffed shells with ricotta cheese, and maybe even leftover lunch!

He searched for it, but it was gone. The lunch he thought of was there though, bocconcini salad with grape tomatoes. He took the bowl of that, looking down at it with disgust, knowing full well it wasn't going to sustain him for long. He slid it on the kitchen island. He'll have to get something else.

But his terror increased when he saw shelves full of food that which were not complete of themselves, not enough to combine to make a meal. Goat cheese, leftover tomato puree, some fruit such as cantaloupe, honeydew, peas, a block of gorgonzola cheese, some brandy in the door, and other irrelevant junk.

"_What the…"_ he mumbled with disapproval and seething agitation.

Surprising as it was for him, he also needn't think long to figure out who was responsible for this mess. He closed the fridge door, leaned against the kitchen island, and took out his phone from his robe pocket. (Even in his robe, he always tried to keep it on him).

He dialed Secco.

One, two, three, four rings and finally, his subordinate answered.

"W-what is it Cioocco-lata?!" Secco sounded a bit distressed. The fucker must have known what this call was over…

"Secco, what's the meaning of this?" Cioccolata asked sternly. He noticed some strange noises on the other end, Secco definitely had the TV on like he always did, but it sounded a bit off. He also could hear Secco making some strange huffing noises as if he were in the middle of something important. _What the hell? _

"…What are you doing?" He asked.

"I-I'm!_—_I'm playing Banjo-Kazooie!" Secco replied.

Cioccolata grimaced as he spotted the digital time on the microwave. How was he playing videogames this early in the morning? He shook his head, refusing to be distracted from the bone he had to pick with him.

"Answer my question." He stated.

"But I answered you! I-I'm playing Banjo-Kazooie! I can't concentrate and I'm gonna die!" He let out in an understandably agitated tone.

Finally, Cioccolata snapped on him. He growled into the receiver, "I don't care about your fucking game! Explain to me why your gluttonous ass ate all the leftovers!"

Howling was heard from the other line, and Cioccolata had no choice but to ease the phone off his ear, as usual.

"Now I d-died! AAUUGGHH!" he screeched.

Cioccolata parted his legs and tapped his foot on the kitchen floor, trying to maintain composure before he really lost it and snapped for real. One thing that really ticked him off was matters related to food, and if he had an empty stomach, then there was surely going to be a reckoning.

He waited patiently, and finally Secco responded once more, but this time, with a dejected moan of defeat.

"Why are y-you yelling at me? I…I didn't have any today. What are you _t-talking about?" _

"You're trying to tell me that you had nothing to do with this?" Cioccolata fired rapid Italian, not believing a word of what was said. What's worse, is that if Secco was lying…he was really gonna get it.

"I didn't though Cio-ccolata! I haven't g-gone over there today! Plus, I still g-got my o-own food to eat!"

Cioccolata put his head down, closed his eyes, then pressed his fingers into the orbits in disbelief. There was no way the slaves had any. The only logical explanation was then that Secco had sleepwalked over to the main-house and went straight for the fridge. He knew of Secco sleep walking, but that didn't sound right.

He looked around again. He's been having a strange feeling, something that felt to be amiss in his home. Assassins…the Boss' men…did somebody in the family sneak into his home? _Recently? _

Cioccolata went mute. He connected the dots all too quickly, without having to discuss it further with Secco.

"…A-are you there?" Secco sounded anxious now, likely afraid he would be in trouble.

"It's okay. I believe you." Cioccolata muttered, continuing as he turned around and circled his kitchen island, "I think someone was in here, Secco…"

There was a gasp from the other line. "_Someone!? Who!? _Who do you think it was Cioccolata…?"

"I think one of the Boss' men, maybe more."

Secco scoffed now, saying, "Who's he gonna send? Ha! There's hardly anyone higher than the elite."

"They don't _need_ to be." Cioccolata replied shortly, "It could have been from _Gestione dell'informazione _for all I know_…but…" _his tone seemed to darken now as he stared out ahead of the kitchen, into the pallor. His eyes scanned his immaculate home with hatred now as the thoughts sank deeper.

"…To think that he not only would order this behind my back, but then for them to waltz into _my _home and eat _my _food. It's a disrespect. It's a _deliberate _disrespect." He growled with barely restrained aggression, it bubbled beneath the surface until he could feel vitriol in his blood.

How he wanted to twist their heads clean off their trunks. It was _unthinkable _for him to be disrespected in such a way. And yet, they were clearly not hitmen; they wouldn't help themselves to his fridge unless they had already hit their target. What were they here for…?

Secco inquired now, wanting to find the answer to the question that now boggled them both.

"Do…do you thi_—think _that the Boss…" His voice stopped abruptly, but soon after, he gasped, "HRMG!?—"

Cioccolata's heart sank when he heard it.

"Secco!?" He looked around his surroundings more now.

"S-sorry! I-it's nothing!"

Cioccolata sighed with agitation, "Don't scare me like that…"

Secco clearly had a moment of paranoia over what he had attempted to say previously…so he tried again.

"Do you really believe the Boss called a hit on us?"

"Anything is possible but, I don't believe that's what this is."

"Wh-what? What do you mean, Cioccolata?" Secco asked in confusion, needing Cioccolata to clarify his meaning.

"I think it's more likely that he's gathering information on me." Cioccolata concluded matter of factly.

"_But why?"_

"I'm a threat to him." Cioccolata replied, continuing, "He couldn't kill me. He knows I'm the most powerful in this entire empire. I'm useful, but also a threat."

"B-but_—_Just in c-case, what are we gonna do now!? I-if I see one of these guys, I-I'm gonna KILL 'EM!" his trailed out aggressively, huffing now into the receiver with bloodlust.

"Calm down. Don't leave your suite. I'm not leaving mine either…We're going to lay low for about a week, then I'll have to go hit the market."

"O-okay but…what will you eat t-then?" Secco inquired with a suddenly relaxed tone.

"Simple, I'll order out." Cioccolata was antsy to hang up now, looking around again, he was feeling inclined to search around for any other evidence of home invasion. "Alright, I'm going to go now." He put simply.

"WAIT b-but_—" _Secco cried, continuing in a strangely enthusiastic tone given the contrasting anxiety, "W-wh-what _IF _the pizza guy comes to deliver the boxes…but then h-he gets hit instead?!" He exclaimed the last part as if he were telling a joke, while also truly wondering this to be a possibility.

There was silence from Cioccolata's end for about seven seconds, and Secco waited with apprehension, but finally, Cioccolata added gently, "It all depends which comes first…"

He had his hand on his chin now as if in thought, as if this was the million-lira question and he just _had _to answer it right. He began speaking rather rapidly, "If he's hit _before _he delivers it to my door, and the food flies all over_—_I'm not going to be happy! _But _if he delivers it safely, and _then _he's hit, well then it's just more to enjoy when I open the door!"

"AAAHEEEUEEUUEHEEHAAAHAHA!" Secco cried into compulsive laughter, which was usually music to Cioccolata's ears. Many times when he heard Secco start laughing, he did as well, or vice versa. The two psychopaths were infectious to one another in more ways than one. It was only for the pressure of the moment that he was able to contain himself, so he only chuckled somewhat. But perhaps the humor was what he truly needed to relax a bit from his frustration.

Secco contained himself for the most part, squealing here and there then adding, "Y-you're so funny, Cioccolata! Heeheehee, hey when he leaves t-the boxes at the door, YOU won't even kn-know which is the pizza! He's GONNA—GONNA be the pizza too!"

Cioccolata knew his meaning right away. "Don't you just _hate _when they do a sloppy job like that? Getting the sauce all over the box…" He scoffed right after, and sure enough, Secco erupted into voluble laughter.

* * *

**.**

The week of self-quarantine turned into close to a month. During this time, Cioccolata stayed shut inside his estate walls, not even venturing on his property, as if there was some worldwide epidemic that he was under obligation of doing so. This left him with even _more _time on his hands than he normally had. Sure, it could have all been for naught_—_he still didn't believe the men who snuck into his home were hired to hit. However, he wanted to play it safe, and that he would see through.

The extra time on his hands left him to do some more goofing around than what would be his usual. Or rather, it should be said that, he simply goofed around a little bit more in a shorter time frame.

Luckily for him, at the time of Cioccolata's realization of his home being intruded upon, it was only two days before he had planned to bring the fully trained girls up to the slave quarters. Now that they would be in the process which he named, "the robe," he would have a lot of time to keep watch of them and make sure they acclimate well. This gave him something to do, sure, but it couldn't sustain _all_ his time. And so, his boredom was never completely sated. Through this month of late November into December of 1999, the point would surely be exemplified that Cioccolata should _never _have too much time on his hands.

There was a bar and lounge within his estate. One day he was shooting pool there, refreshing himself on his skills. He grew weary of this fast however and called Secco over to play against him. This grew tiresome after a while as well, and after letting Secco go about his way, he had to preoccupy himself _somehow._

He sat on the sofa behind the pool table and wasn't surprised at all when his mind started running off to sex. Just then, he looked over at one of the end tables and saw that he left his laptop there. It was a newly released Apple iBook G3 Glamshell, bordered with lime green, including the Apple logo. He remembered that the last time that he had used it was to transfer the footage from his camera to it…there was a purpose of that.

He got up, retrieved the laptop, then sat back down with it where it belonged; on his lap, (lucky). He pressed the small power button, and the logo filled the screen. An intricate array of colors all meshing together made up his background. It was the one the computer came with. Cioccolata knew his way around the internet, but he didn't really bother too much with all the details and personalization of things.

First thing's first. He wanted to check his email, so he went to . The mouse turned into a spinning circle as he waited on the page to load, thereafter seeing the blue and white themed layout. He virtually hovered over netmail, then clicked on that, watching the next page load. The screen told him that he had mail! Oh boy!

Unfortunately, it looked like the same junk mail and spammers at it yet again…no one important or interesting…

**Having problems with fungus in your home? MOLD ELIMINATOR!**

**Medical malpractice? Think your doctor is a QUACK? Here's some simple steps to get the justice YOU deserve before it's too late!**

**XXxXxXUSED-AND-ABUSED-CUMBUCKETS-IN-TUSCANY-XXxXxX What are you waiting for?...**

**sexy sugar-baby girls looking for their big, soft sugar daddy~ click here**

The first two emails were _especially _reoccurring, and he hated it. No matter how many times he flagged them as junk mail, or even blocked the senders, they _still _found their way back into his main mail_—_he could _not _understand why!

He grunted in frustration as he proceeded on to delete the mail, the nagging thought that there was no way he could ever escape these emails lingering on his mind.

First came the fungus email. As he watched the mail go into his virtual trash bin, he smiled maniacally in triumph saying, "I'd like to see them try to get rid of _my _mold, hehe!"

Obviously Cioccolata was taking some sadistic delight in deleting these emails, though it was always a short lived one. They essentially were reviving for each time he checked his emails yet again.

Next came the doctor email. This was one he was a bit more curious over, so he hovered over the email before deleting it. After reading the title again, he commented, "…Well it's already too late for _those _patients…heheh."

But just after saying it, as if it were guided by the wrath of the fallen spirits of his four victims, he made a big mistake…. He accidentally clicked the doctor email, and a torrent of pop ups flooded his screen.

"Argh! _No! No, no, no!" _he growled in distress as he tried and failed to close the windows. The worst part was that every time this happened, the windows would not close even when he kept clicking the X at the corner! Instead, the windows would persist until he was forced to restart the laptop.

"_Figlio di puttana…" _ He seethed as he was forced to do just that.

Two minutes later, he was back to his emails, looking at the doctor's email once again with hatred filled eyes. He deleted it, not making another smart remark when doing so.

The sexual emails were last, he knew these ones came from his bit of porn consumption, as well as from his own uploading of them on one of his favorite sites. The sugar daddy one had him a bit curious, but he wasn't going to click on it…he already learned his lesson several times in the past from doing so deliberately. Still, he had heard about a site where women could hook up with sugar daddies…was that the one? ? That would be nice…

The temptation was hitting him again, and it didn't help that his second head was engorged, so it was doing more of the thinking right about now…but he shook his head, clearing himself of it, surprisingly. That's what he was making his slave-harem for!

_The blonde is sugar baby material…_The thought tickled him pleasurably well.

The junk in his mailbox was cleared out at last, so now he decided to go onto his next task. There was a couple of sites he wanted to check, as he hadn't done so in a little while. This self-isolation he was doing made it a great time to do so, especially for the latter site…

It's been over a month since he logged into his account on "," a site on the dark web specifically for homemade snuff films, whether sexual or not, including necrophilia. Other extreme as well as dangerous paraphilias were common here_—_one of the genres being pedophilia. One might wonder if the videos uploaded here were fake, especially if you just happened to stumble upon, say, one of the necro or rape films. Afterall, there was some pretty great actors/actresses out there…

…However, it seemed to be understood and unspoken amongst its users that these videos were genuine. Comments were enabled, but no one ever mentioned how "real" it seemed, for instance.

And so, Cioccolata did upload his footage he had gathered thus far with his new slaves. He was more than happy to introduce a new set of videos to his profile's portfolio. His other videos were from his jobs from the Boss, as well as the recordings from his four patients when he was a doctor and some…fun, but rare moments in the hospital morgue.

He was coming on this site only to see the comments, and then he planned on making a profile on a strictly BDSM site he had previously scoped out the month back when he last transferred and uploaded his footage. This new BDSM site that he wanted to upload only his footage with his slaves was vanilla in the sense that it was presumably consensual…but what the viewers don't know, won't hurt them. In fact, they'll only be pleased with how genuine it seems.

As for the site at hand, the more extreme one, his profile finally emerged from the page's loading. The base layout of the site was dark, as not to betray one's expectation. His username and profile were in bold font at the top of the page.

_**DrFeelgood**_

**Bizarre porn videos**

**Necrophilia**

**Snuff**

**Rape**

**Dead**

**Mutilation**

**Limp sex**

**Funnybizness**

**\+ show all tags**

He only had a handful of videos uploaded _here, _but on the new site he would visit, that was certainly soon to change. To be clear, all footage he produced in the dungeon he would upload here as well as the BDSM site, since it was still hardcore. However, once he had trained the slaves well enough, and he was convinced they would be good pets, the dynamics would change a bit. It gave a lot more opportunities for more relatively vanilla scenarios, which would be more appropriate for the latter site.

The best part about his porn viewing and uploading, which especially was great for _dark-secrets-exposed, _was that all members of Passione had IP block software, so he never had to worry about being tracked by the feds. Not only that, but during this time period, the internet was really just taking off, not to mention the country…hardly any regulation, to put it simply. Being a kinky fuck never felt so _liberating! _

Right away, he went to check out his first tape he made with the blonde slave. It blew up already after a month and some change. Looking through them induced a dark chuckle from Cioccolata, he was pleased to see how many users got a good dick jerking out of this one.

**Curious4U ****3 weeks ago**

**Gosh look at that virgin pussy bleed…..you deflowered that bitch perfectly**

**BiGdREAMs_CUMEZ ****3 weeks ago**

**God I wish that were me**

**Brainlessfuckmeat ****7 days ago**

**I want you to fuck me like that on the gurney **

**Satisfaction ****5 days ago**

**Omg marry her! **

These were just a sample of the comments on her video, it seemed like she made quite the popular pussy. Sometimes women commented on these too, surprisingly, even sending him a private message. He still never replied though. It was all simply a validation for him.

After he was finished checking the comments on _dark-secrets-exposed, _Cioccolata went on to the new aforementioned BDSM site, where he registered to create a profile. He saw that it was free, but he also spent some time browsing other profiles on there…and he saw some interesting things! Apparently, some men were able to set up a contract with their membership; they would pay a monthly fee for perks, and in exchange, had to upload their _own _content to which the site would then offer them a cut_—_depending on how many hits they got.

Maybe this was something typical for the times? Who knew. At any rate, it excited Cioccolata, who was determined to take up such a membership. Producing his own content each month would be so easy with how many girls he would have collected! And the quality of his content was unmatched as well, he and Secco made great camera men! And as if he wasn't money bags as it was, this would give him another avenue of income. Who knows, maybe he was going to unlock another calling for himself_—_maybe he was destined to become a porn star!

He giddily proceeded on through the short processes of setting up his profile, almost with a smirk plastered upon his face. In the next couple of days, it would be time to take the girls up to the slave's quarters of his estate and for about the next two weeks, they will have to adjust to the living arrangements and mannerisms he expected of them. Out of the kindness of his heart_—_which _of course _existed for him_—_he decided then and there that he would wait to start producing the content of them until _after _that time.

See? He was a nice and considerate man who knew how to take things slow with the ladies…

After the brief thought, he saw that he was then prompted to create his username finally, how exciting! He was tempted to use _DrFeelgood_ again, but maybe he should have something _especially_ fitting for this sight. Perhaps to signify his new dungeon master status, right?

It didn't take long then. He had to go for something like that! A few clinks and clanks were heard from his keyboard then, carefully typed.

Dungeon_Master

_Perfetto. _That's just perfect.

He was completely satisfied, so he proceeded onward, but the page didn't proceed; he was redirected back to the previous screen with bold font words.

***Username already taken.**

_What the fuck!? _

It figured…he should have figured this. No doubt some wise guy out there fancied _himself _a dungeon master. But this was just as impossible for any man besides Cioccolata himself to achieve as much as it is for Secco to produce enough testosterone. Really now, what man had the right to call himself a dungeon master? Did he put out the money to recreate his basement into a dungeon? And did he kidnap his own women for such a project?

In irritation, he opened a new tab, bringing up the site's main page. He clicked on "search users," then proceeded to type in Dungeon_Master.

One user did appear. He even had a profile picture! He clicked on it and scanned over the man's profile. One word came to his disgusted mind. _Pathetic. _

His profile picture was whack. It was a tanned, muscular man with a black hood over his face, slightly slouched and flexing his muscles as if he were a body builder. Perhaps he was. Perhaps not. All Cioccolata needed to know was that the man was clearly a larper. The man's age was listed as 37, from the United States, and that he produced videos with his "bunnies" as part of the premium membership. He also had the links to the women's profiles as well.

From how it sounded, he paid these women to do so. Cioccolata _clearly _one-upped him on this; he wasn't going to be paying any of his girls for their services, because they were to literally be _his _possessions. Whether they consented or not, they _would _be producing content with him and it will be uploaded. Anyway, their room and board, meals and clothes would be paid for them their entire life. The least they could do for him was give him ass.

Who did this guy think he is claiming to be a dungeon master? You can't be a dungeon master when you haven't any mastery over the dungeon inhabitants; the women! This was just illogical, and it pained him to think deeper on it, so he closed the tab, alleviating his frustration.

Something happened then in the maniac as he looked at the empty box where the rightful username of Dungeon_Master should have been accepted; it was a rivalry. He typed in Dungeon_Master again, this type, with the other man's age in mind, he added his own age into the username.

His frustration was settled for good when he saw that Dungeon_Master32 was accepted. He still, however, couldn't help but feel somewhat bitter. It didn't bother him to hint at his age on public record; call him persnickety, but he wanted a clean-cut Dungeon_Master. That other asshole doesn't deserve that name. It's not right at all! If only he could track the man, take a trip to the US and…free the use of the username. But even for a man like Cioccolata, this was doing just a bit too much.

It didn't matter. Shortly, he would be producing his own content and getting paid for it just like this man. Even better, this would all just be more pocket change for him, adding to his unmeasured financial abundance. What type of work did that man even do? Blue-collar jobs? He didn't need to wonder really because he already _knew_ he made more than him. He was _also _certain that his content would be far greater than this man's as well, and he could produce more of it at a time.

_We'll see who the real dungeon master is… _He thought cynically, before closing the page altogether.

He was going to have to go distract himself for a bit. Not to mention, his routine varied a bit; not often did he spend over two hours on his laptop. Sometimes he did in the rare occasion that he watched a movie. In all honestly, besides watching his own snuff, movies and TV shows did little to please him…he watched other snuff videos online as well, and this greatly pleased him. It always seemed that the sight of blood relaxed him, and indeed, he knew this much to be true about him. He could almost always feel his blood pressure lower at the sight of it, at least when he watched it. In person it had a strange effect of calming him and exciting him to action all at once.

Sometimes he sat back and marveled at just how sick in the head he truly was. But it was a fleeting thought compared to the thoughts of superiority over others he often entertained and wrote about. The thought could hardly be called one stemming from his conscience. Perhaps it was…long ago. Maybe even it was the tail end of the storm. But _never_ was it one which apprehended his code of conduct; he saw no rational reason to quit his lifestyle, having been completely incentivized to continue thus so.

More time passed, and with it, a dreaded sense of ennui for the moldy bastard. Sitting with himself with not much to entertain him was always a bad idea. He had much more of it as it was from the time he was let go from his work at the hospital and even more so within Passione. But not being able to leave the estate even for groceries? Dreaded!

It wasn't right for a man to have so much time on his hands, and it drove Cioccolata down a path of comedic relief. His mind took a preoccupation with obsessing over the time. Each time he looked up from what he was doing, he was always face to face with either the analog hands of a clock or the digit time. It was after seeing this so many times, along with the peculiarity of seeing repeated digits—usually 4:44 or 8:44—that he decided he was could make his _own _clock. But to be accurate, it was his own spin of a clock, and it wasn't exactly a functional one.

Really, it was just a picture he put together on his laptop's editing software, with images copied and pasted on a black circle. In the middle of the clock was a stick figure man and woman, in the fashion of the kinds that are seen on the pedestrian walking signs or other public hazards or notices. It wasn't so much the style of the stick figures that were striking however, but what they were _doing. _

The stick figure man was on his knees, and so was the stick figure woman. At least, it was indicative that it was a woman by the lump on her chest. He was holding her leg up, and in his other hand, the hour and minute hand of the clock was overlaid upon it to give the impression he was superintending the hands. It was obviously meant to be provocative, but that was only the start.

All twelve hours, a full 360 degrees had an image of a stick figure man and woman in a different position to represent the hours. Cioccolata was very proud of his meager editing skills, and he absorbed the entirely of it before he pasted the finished image on a writing document. It was there that he pondered up a witty message to explain his creation, so he looked over each hour on his makeshift clock as he thought on it.

For twelve o'clock, the stick figures were in missionary position, with the male on his knees, holding up the female's lower half.

For one o'clock, the female was in a locust cowgirl position.

For two o'clock, the male was eating out the female.

For three o'clock, it was reverse cowgirl.

For four o'clock, it was face sitting time.

For five o'clock, it was missionary, but an alteration to twelve where the male was leaning over the female.

For six o'clock, it was doggy style.

For seven o' clock, it was traditional cowgirl.

For eight o'clock, the male stick figure was getting head.

For nine o'clock, the female stick figure was on top of the male again, but he was propped up.

For ten o'clock, they were spooning.

Finally, for eleven o'clock, it was doggy style again, but with an alteration where the man had only one knee on the floor, while the other foot was planted on the floor. Cioccolata saved that one for eleven o'clock since that was one of his personal favorites.

But really…he could take them all. Indeed. They were all nice.

After just a couple minutes, he finished out a neat paragraph in fancy font, right above the clock. He printed it out, and like a child was all giddy to see it. He only used black and white ink, and as it turned out, it came out perfect. He had a few copies printed, and he was so excited that he scooped them up while the paper was still hot! He looked over his masterpiece thereon, already knowing full well where he was going to place some…why not down in the dungeon and slave quarters for his pets to see!?

_Even though time seems to be in slow motion lockdown thanks to the Boss and his shit eating piss ants—I created this clock to make the hours pass by with a sense of a continuous urge to fuck! _

_As the second hand goes around, you can hear the gong— "Dick-cock! Dick-cock! Dick-cock! Dick-cock!" _

_But wait—there's more! _

_At both noon AND midnight, the sound of brass bells will bang together, creating an echoing, "Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!" _

_That's right—12 in all! ;-)_

_So, enjoy your time, and live life like a porn star. _

While it was more than unsettling that he planned to hang this for the blonde and auburn to see, as well as future slaves, it was certainly the humor befitting Cioccolata—that was for sure. Not long after he finished this, he taped it up on the wall in the pallor of the slave's quarters—their very soon to be destination.

Not long after doing this however, his boredom resurfaced. This took the form of him once again, browsing the internet. He was dilly-dallying really, and it was something he really didn't like to do. Yet the lack of movement in his daily life these days kept him involuntarily stationary. Just when he found himself growing increasingly jaded, he slipped back in on the dark side of the internet once more. It seemed like boredom was a recipe for disaster for his curiosity.

And so, after enjoying some snuff films, he suddenly remembered a site he hadn't been on for a couple months. Of course! How could he forget it!

There was a site he only recently discovered… during the time period that he was unemployed. It was a site for men with…interests and mindsets much like his own. At least, it could be assumed they were all men, they all at least presented themselves as such.

If he could make a good guess, he would say for sure they were all men—women weren't exactly as likely to placed very high on the psychopathy scale. This was a site for psychopaths.

It was likely many different kinds read the boards and discussions which were the main focus on the site, but it seemed only the most extreme or "out there" made the majority of the posting and initiations of the discussions. Honestly, sometimes it went on to look like something of a shit show—despite what one would think, they weren't always very friendly to one another. However, Cioccolata could say for a fact, that for the most part, the discussions were wholesome in the sense that they were very supportive of each other.

Sometimes boards would be made just to discuss current events, usually politics. Some were for philosophy, books they had read, history, and of course…their sins. Cioccolata made the most contributions to the latter, though he also dipped is fingers in the politics and philosophy, and the books of course—he had a whole library after all!

On the boards discussing their sins, it was usually filled with images. Dismembered body parts, graphic images of their victims and what have you. They of course, never shared pictures of themselves. What was most entertaining about this board, was the fact that many of the men went on to write a paragraph detailing what they did and how they did in. Sometimes, the details themselves were quite literally painful.

Cioccolata always had a deep smile almost plastered on his face whenever he scrolled through this board. Not only for the obvious, but it filled him with an indescribable validation for himself which almost grazed the surface of poignancy. It was nice to see so many men around the world that were a lot like him…especially when all his life, he felt so alone in how he felt along with his vagarious nature.

And this wasn't all to account with his therapeutic experience. There was also a support board for the users. It was exactly as the name suggested; the men could help support each other through their mental illness. In such a way, it was so much better than having a psychiatrist—considering the fact that if they had one might have indicated that they were in jail. Most of these guys weren't going to seek out help themselves, and that may have been in fact the _last _thing they would do. But ranting and getting advice from fellow sick fucks? It was more likely, especially with the anonymity the internet provided.

So it was this board that Cioccolata also took a look at every now and then, though it's been quite a while now. Things were slowing down in Passione it seemed, let alone the little home invasion…he had more than enough time to check up on all the boy's mental health. He had even already discussed his new project of collecting sex slaves for his harem, and this already had many of the men's interest.

The most frequent post here was actually a few hours ago, and when he saw the username, "HelterSkelter," he knew right away who it was! That was none other than his good pen-pal, William from England! He scrolled past the bit of replies he got from the other guys at the original posting. It was always quite comical to read over William's posts, since his idiolect and colloquialism was clear. He was the only other man on the site who Cioccolata shared his name with, as they even were close enough that they private messaged each other sometimes. His eyes scanned the succinct paragraph posted from him.

**HelterSkelter ****1999 11 Dec 4 hours **

Guys, I need a little boost right now. They've got all the bloody Christmas lights and the Yuletide bullocks up about my town. The assholes can't even stop themselves; they've gotten so ahead of themselves they've got to put on every fucking telephone pole and tellybooth…it's so stupid. It's really grody too, people walk their mutts out here and they piss on the ornaments so every pole reeks of piss. Ah, anyway… I spent the last couple days when I come home from the grind staring out the window, but then I watched a bloke let his mutt piss on the pole one last time I tell you. I went outside and told the oaf to keep his shit moving and I don't want that type of vandalism around my property, told me to fuck off. That was it, I though. I stomped his cocker spaniel like it were a rat in the gutter. I reckon I'd have kept going too, but the cheeky fuck dragged him off and I kicked him too. I don't give a fuck anymore, I'm just tired of blokes with the Saint Nicholas shit. I know it's got to do with my own shit, I shared with you mates before about the shit with my father. It's so hypocritical and I hate this shit every time the year comes 'round. Sometimes I want to get my hatchet and paint this town red right on their bloody elf statues, I'll give them a fucking white Christmas. It's going to take the whole city's bobbies on me to stop this work I've got for them! But I'm not sure right now, I've got to be losing it again which is unfortunate, really. After the past two months, I was doing so good and distracting myself. I even quit the cigs and the booze but honestly, I'm back on my old shenanigans. I'm going to go to the pub tonight and rail one of the hussies, so I feel somewhat better but really, I won't be surprised if I break her neck in the process.

Well wishes.

"Hahahaha!" Cioccolata cackled, but then immediately checked himself with an, "Oops. Guess I shouldn't be laughing…"

There were several responses from the other guys so far, but Cioccolata figured now was the time that he could give him some support as well. He knew that William, as mentioned in the confessional, had some _heavy_ trauma regarding this holiday season. Cioccolata couldn't relate as far as Christmas being a trigger for him, but he could of course relate to the feeling of lapsing sanity after a prolonged period of some well received peace of mind. As a matter of fact, that had to be one of the worst parts of their illnesses…

**VisionThing ****1999 11 Dec 2 mins ago**

It appears that you were lacking foresight in that outburst, my friend. Not that I blame you. I hear you as far as the holiday season goes with all the ridiculousness. Keep in mind that it'll just pass off as it does every year. Let the dogs have their day, as they say. Haha well, you sure let that cocker spaniel have his. 😉 Hey, I might have some pics for you if that'll help give you the boost you need. Oh, and have fun at the pub, my friend! We all need to indulge in the wine and women for a little distraction…I'm not saying I hope you break her neck but…send pics if you do! 😉

VisionThing was Cioccolata's username on this site. It was a reference to one of his favorite albums, and his profile avatar was a green eye of Ra—Cioccolata's fascination with esoteric knowledge took him around the world, so of course his fascination was also placed in the Nile.

While his response may not have been ordinarily seen as too much encouragement for the other, they as mentioned, had a bit of a friendship. So William would no doubt appreciate the input. This is what Cioccolata thought to himself, and sure enough, in validation of his thought, he opened his private messages and saw that William sent him some pictures. It was just of his town with all the Christmas décor that he was complaining about in his post.

But Cioccolata had much the opposite interpretation of these pictures…he found them to be very aesthetically pleasing. The cut of the cobble and architecture left him with the knowledge that it was a geographical location much unlike the Mediterranean world he was accustomed to.

He wondered then if he should visit England at some point for a little vacation. It honestly wasn't just the sight that prompted him to this thought…it was the silhouettes of the blonde women in the distance of the pictures. Suddenly his originally passing thought of visiting England turned into a lasting one. It seemed that, like the US, there was an abundance of fair featured women. Yes, Cioccolata certainly loved his wine and women…and especially the blondes.

There was something to be said for the psychology of Cioccolata's attraction and preference. To make the most sense out of it would be to conclude that he found recessive traits superior, and most desirable to procreate with. He, of course, had green eyes; the rarest of all, especially for men to carry. However, it was truly the purity of a pale woman with blonde haired and blue eyes…They looked so simple, pure and chaste (even if they weren't), that it made them so appealing to him to dominate and reduce to slop. To corrupt them. This is also why he especially was attracted to short and petite women as well.

Which was why…The blonde was the most exquisite woman he had seen. Although he now only had twenty-five percent of his harem complete, he wondered if he could find a woman more visually appealing to him than her. He doubted it, yet that wouldn't stop him from carrying out its completion—why would a man like him settle? Afterall, he might just find himself pleasantly surprised and make some other great catches out in the sea of estrogen…

He was prompted by a feeling down in his abdomen to close his laptop. Nature was calling, but not the kind that one might have thought after his internal monologue on women. He simply had to use the bathroom. He took off to handle his business, thus ending our thesis on why Cioccolata should never be given too much time on his hands.

**.**


	9. Chapter 9

_Love is the poison I'm dying to taste,_

_Love is the high-spirited thorn that keeps beauty pure._

_Love might be the reason you were born._

_Love is pain, and O' damn…_

_…I'm dying to see you suffer. ~My Red, Red Moon (Emma O), Nightfall_

* * *

**Capitolo IX: **

**-**_L'epoca d'oro: prima fase_**-**

17-24, December 1999

It had been almost a month since Cioccolata's original pickle—the home invasion which had prompted him to seemingly quarantine himself within his own manor as if the outside world were wrought with some type of epidemic. Not long after he began his self-isolation, he had moved his slaves from out of the dungeon and into their own respective manor—the slave quarters. It was an interesting time, and he spent the time teetering between a type of budding feeling toward the blonde specifically. The "feeling" was best described as an inquisitive one, but he wasn't quite familiar with it. It wasn't a simple infatuation, as he had experienced a couple years earlier…although it was indeed similar.

He couldn't make much sense of it. He didn't understand the reason for why he felt the need to check up on his slaves more frequently, or spy on what they were doing—but the fact that it was voyeurism left him in a state of a satiety to the point it left him no inquiry on how it all began. It seemed as though, watching the blonde in particular, came so natural to him that to disturb the action with internal interrogation would altogether perturb the natural phenomena. He therefore opted not to think on it too much, or, as fitting for his grounded and orderly nature, decided it was best to schedule a time he could think on it. This was what made his current occupation rather unfortunate—it forced him to take on more hobbies to busy himself with. Luckily, when you had so much money that you couldn't even count it, it made busying yourself that much easier.

Molding former slaves into pets was just the outlet. Once they were fully acclimated to him and his lifestyle, maybe they'd even be able to earn the privilege of going out with him? In any case, it made for a great celebration from the moment he took them upstairs: November 25th—December 9th. It all seemed now to be perfect timing, for Cioccolata had a fantasy, an experiment in mind which he thought now would be a better time than ever to dabble in.

The ancient Roman festivities that took place in mid-December to just before the later known Christmas Eve; the Saturnalia—or festivities of the "golden age." Cioccolata was educated in such pagan celebrations, especially of the Romans, and he found the theme of Saturnalia, naturally, to be most curious to him. The idea of role reversal, or switching—between the masters and slaves, was most interesting. Even better, was the knowledge in one's subconscious of the natural order between these differences in status. Sure, it was all fun and games, and like most celebrations and rituals, a way to entertain similar standing to the gods—but it was also a reminder of one's standing in a society or order.

It was during the eve of the coming festivities that Cioccolata slammed both of his slaves in celebration, the auburn and the blonde. It was one last chance, over the next coming days, to relish in his status as a master. And as a matter of fact, he swapped from one to the other in the same bed. Secco joined in to fuck the auburn, while Cioccolata then grinded on the blonde. He and Secco both had a little too much bottle that day, quite frankly drinking to surfeit. All of this was done in prelusion to the event; Cioccolata even breaking his "Thursdays only" rule. It was a Friday.

It was quite an entertaining tape to watch though, Cioccolata witnessing himself so shit faced was a rarity. Something else truly entertaining happened, something that could only be attributed to that rowdy lewd drunkenness. He and Secco at one point fucked the auburn at the same time.

Cioccolata was, in general, extremely conservative when it came to his preference, the blonde. There was no doubt, she was soon going to be elevated to a special pet status… The auburn on the other hand, he had no plans on changing status. She would remain his slave for a lot longer until she pleased him fully, perhaps even indefinitely. With that said, he had no problems letting Secco ravage her like a dog in heat; there was no fuss in sharing her.

It all started while Secco was forcing the auburn to ride him, getting wild several times in trying to make her do a better job. Cioccolata was seeing this as he was drilling his dick in the blonde's little pussy, who was laying on her back with her wrists tied to the outer side of each knee. She was propped up against the pillow, her legs spread out and thighs damn near pressed all the way back. Cioccolata would look behind him every now and then for the auburn's view. He wasn't bored at all with the blonde, not in the least. But what man wouldn't?

Seeing that Secco was getting wilder, and he was obviously having trouble making her cooperate, Cioccolata couldn't resist joining in. He dismissed his dick from the blonde, who now had no choice but to witness his participation in a ménage à trois. But he did so properly, slapping her inner thigh with a grin, and reassuring her that he'd be back to play with her more.

He then took Secco by surprise, crawling up directly above him. Secco, with his face toward the ceiling, got a good look at the bottom of Cioccolata's balls. He was in too much pleasure to say much of anything, nor did he care. He was in full out fuck mode. Cioccolata proceeded to force the auburn to give him head, her face curling mawkishly to the taste of the blonde's feminine juices still fresh on his cock. Through doing so, he effectively forced her pussy to stay submerged upon Secco's dick, and the results were seen on his smiles and gleeful outbursts.

"_Sì_…excellent…" He bit down on his black lip and hissed, "you give me head and ride his dick at the same time." He chuckled in his throat. Damn, he would never get tired of this.

Really, he was giving himself head. As he recalled it, he fucked her face quite viciously, all that could be heard was Secco's growls and hums, the gagging of swishing originating from the auburn's mouth, and Cioccolata's groans. The auburn's saliva dripped down uncontrollable past his balls, and landing sometimes right on Secco's face, but he didn't really care. All in all, it seemed to be a competition over one woman and whose dick she gave more attention to.

It continued that way for a while, until Cioccolata pulled his dick from her mouth abruptly, then switching to her behind. He freed Secco's vision of his balls and cock drool and grabbed chain-link cuffs he had in a drawer. He took the auburn's wrists, yanked them behind her, twisting her arms back until her palms were facing outward, fixed well up her upper back. He secured the cuffs on her all the while Secco began taking the initiative offered from the diversion to drill her pussy further.

Cioccolata finished up his work by stuffing her panties in her mouth to silence her for the incoming sodomy. Then he tied a muzzle around her mouth to keep the panties stuffed in there, his lust giving him little concern over the hazards.

He never got tired of seeing her fat olive ass against his dick, watching himself slither in her asshole. Her drool on his dick made bountiful lubrication, and he thrust himself in so fast that she almost swallowed back her panties in the shock.

_"A-Aaaaahh," _he moaned and exhaled. His eyes rolled to his head as he felt his dick push through anal tissue to the hilt. Once his dick, up to the base was buried in her ass, there was a primal green light in his mind. He ravaged her, holding her bounded wrists to give himself and her leverage, and slapping her ass periodically. In the process, he even could feel the friction of Secco's dick on the other side of her tissue's walls. This pull gave ten times the average amount of sensation on his cock, so he came a lot faster.

He was sure the same effect was met on Secco's end, not only through the friction, but the throw of her body back and forth, which forced her pussy to grind Secco's dick deep inside her. He was squeezing her waist, crying out a series of autistic groans until he squeezed out a sperm-less nut. Cioccolata pounded her ass some more to a wet clap until he emptied a loaded sperm filled nut in her rectum. Secco occupied the time laying back on a cloud, cupping the auburn's swollen watermelons in his palms.

Cioccolata cried out himself in a sudden outburst of "Haaa! Haa! Haahhh…" Once he enjoyed the last convulsions of his cock, emptying his seed to the last drop, he pulled out and simultaneously threw her body down on top of Secco, who had to quickly catch her.

Like clockwork he went back to the blonde, panting still all the while, he forced his shitty limp dick down her throat; once again making her eat the auburn's shit like awhile back down in the dungeon. By now, she was well domesticated, she had barely a furrow on her brows to the taste—whereas the auburn earlier made dramatic expressions to the blonde's pussy juice in her mouth. _Pathetic. _

Once he was satisfied with how well she cleaned him, he rubbed his balls over her face. There was no shame in his game. The way he saw it, he was fostering a bond between the women through sharing each other in such a personal way.

But there was something which Cioccolata proceeded to do with the blonde which was quite… uncharacteristic of him. However, when considering the role reversal of Saturnalia, it made that much more sense that something like this should happen. Cioccolata was easing bit by bit into this switch of personas—it was time for the master to now serve his slaves.

He lowered his body on the bed until he was laying on his stomach, while lifting his torso up and leaning with his elbows. He then, as if in a sudden passion, took the blonde's small, delicate thighs in his hands, and rubbed his black lips over her inferior feminine ones. His hot breath teased her clit, and God only knows the effect it had on a young virgin that she was before her slavery. She cried out, almost as if she didn't know whether to be frightened or delighted.

Her cry caught Secco's attention, and he almost tripped himself in a frenzy to locate the camera. This was something he never saw his master do before! Especially not to one he deemed as a slave! Secco too, of course, was aware of their experiment into these festivities, and it was all great fun to him, of all people. Even so, witnessing Cioccolata in such a way was indeed shocking, none the less.

Cioccolata began spreading her thighs apart more, working his way up them slowly until he took her joints into a hard grip. He threw his tongue into her smooth walls, nearly submerging his face into her. His nose brushed against her clit periodically.

She balled her fists, still subdued at the sides of her thighs, as she felt a strange pressure arise in her. She didn't want to moan, but found herself doing so, oh so lightly, but just enough that he heard. This, in his strange mood, aroused him all over. It encouraged him to go deeper. In his mind, at that time, though he felt powerless to the compulsion that took him, he rationalized it to control his slave. And this definition of what was taking place would be accurate in application…

Every now and then, when he felt her breathing deepen, he switched the intensity, he nuzzled her clit with his lips slightly. He nibbled at her vulva and ran his teeth gently over the inner labia. He intended to torment her, albeit it was an unusual way for a man like him. He found himself allocating the summation of his sexual expertise upon her, that is, he treated her pussy in the ways his own dick was pleasured; knowing well what to do. His anatomical precision also played into this, as it usually did. He knew just the right spots to nuzzle, nibble, pull between his teeth, suck, breathe, and with what pressure. He wasn't in them guts for nothing.

And after just a bit of this teasing, he sensed she was relaxing, melting her pussy into his mouth in invitation. She opened the gates wider—her legs—as the slave felt herself falling into an unknown erotic state.

Secco was in her line of vision filming with a wide smile. This was already a sight she was adapted to, and now, she was immune to it.

Cioccolata then introduced his fingers. He eased both his index and middle finger into her sex, only venturing them through the opening of her wet sex. During the introduction, he gave full attention to her clitoris, teasing it full on with the partnership of his tongue and lips.

His two fingers were thick, but not nearly as thick as his dick. It would work to string her along further, he thought. After a solid five minutes of his torment on her, on which he kept attention of her body, he noted her breath becoming more frenzied, her light moans beginning to catch a different note.

_Despair… _that's what he thought right away. His favorite word, maybe. But he knew without a doubt, that it was exactly what she was going through now. He knew her type, and he knew she didn't want to cum to him, perhaps she was even still repulsed by him… but she would.

He didn't change any method to what he sensed of her. But he did peek at her expression again, seeing her eyes beginning to roll into her head making his dick rock hard again. Her blue eyes darted in a frenzy when she caught his glaring up at her. The shame written on her was evident.

He began building his pace expertly on his finger fucking, exerting more pressure from his tongue on her clit only when he felt his fingers directly behind it within her. Relying on the smooth underside of his tongue; he used the muscle to press upon her rosy nub. Deeper and deeper she moaned, caught in a dance which she knew not how to navigate.

He eased up on his grip of her other limb, to switch to cupping one of her perky little breasts. He twirled the tip of his finger around her areola, pressing into her nub with his thumb, then gently pinching. He felt around her breast with his palm entirely as if he were her gynecologist. Her panting only became faster. Her head swayed from one side to the other, her neck and face being all that she could move in protest.

It was no fuss for Cioccolata, who, in response, freed her nipple to open her pussy lips wide, and running his tongue from bottom up—dragging his tongue to the tip of her clit, sharpening and rolling his tongue as soon as it met the bottom. He altered this, with him taking her entire clit between his black lips, his fingers inched in her pussy deeper. He seemed to be completely relaxed himself, almost in his element and certainly fixed with a groove; her muffled hums made him also feel as though he was locked into some type of erotic dance. He was awakened from his dedicated concentration of pleasuring her when her voice, shakily, but undoubtedly addressed him.

"_N-no, master_…" she spoke lightly still, out of fear, though the restrained distress was evident to him. It was clearly a plea, and he was obviously in a generous mood, but he still had to enforce the law. So, with her full clit still between his lips, he bit down with his front teeth hard enough to shock her, sending such a contrast of impulses to her startled brain. Her body leapt reflexively, and soon after she cried out the loudest she had yet. Her one free thigh kicked out slightly. He felt the force of the other one he still held captive, and the response pleased him. By no means was his bite just a teasing nibble, like one he had already done. It was meant to inflict light pain.

There was a flash of betrayal in those blue eyes, something like he had seen before, once her nerves had settled. The truth was that he enjoyed hearing the women say "no." That is, especially in a situation like this, "no" meant "yes." In the blonde's case, if what she felt was strong enough to make her dare to speak to him, to say "no," then it must be quite pleasurably agonizing.

And so, he was very pleased to hear her attempts to decline her own pleasure. It truly made him happy. But punishment, even for what should be a reward; that contradiction in response made him even happier. The power to be able to always keep his victims on their toes, never being able to anticipate his response.

Deliberately, he began to lift himself from his elbows slowly, and he gauged her response. Her collar, neck and cheeks shone crimson as she watched, a look of anxiety written there. He knew right away what was going on in her responses, and, very likely the alcohol it was, that he felt like flinging himself back down and making her cum, like he knew he was previously on the verge of doing.

Instead he remained at least somewhat willful. Still, the consequence of alcohol played on his words, making him a bit more brazen than he already naturally was. Everything he said to her going forward were direct results of that intoxication, of drink, of lust, sealed emotions grinded through a flimsy filter.

He was hardly aware of Secco practically directly behind him, capturing every moment, that which would be to his later shame.

Cioccolata began fondling her clit between his fingers now, speaking to her as he did. "_Sì, _I feel how wet you are. You wish that Papà kept licking you, eh?" His fingers released from her clit, and her juices clung between them as if they didn't want to disband the link between them. He noticed, and with his hand raised between them both, he rubbed his fingers against each other with her lingering juices.

After watching this for just a moment, he switched to penetrate her with his eyes, and she looked to be in the greatest distress yet. It was as if the act alone of him holding the proof of her wetness before her was the incriminating, final piece of evidence brought to her trial. He directed his wet fingers to her lips, and she instinctively opened them, allowing him to shove them inside. He pressed his fingers down on her tongue, inching them closer to the entrance of her throat.

He began his torment on her again. Pressing his lower half against her pussy, he proceeded into a motion imitating intercourse. With his heightened alcoholic perversion, he proceeded to shove his nuts inside of her as much as he could, shoving his erect dick over her clitoris, broom sticking her.

He spoke again teasingly, correcting her for her addressal of earlier. "I am _not _your master, as of now. Don't you want to enjoy this…while you can?" He _knew_ she enjoyed it, but her conscience must have kept herself from admitting it. If he were in his right mind, or not engaging in this switch, perhaps he would deny her it completely. But the fact was that he _wanted _to, and in this moment of vulnerability, he loved that she secretly enjoyed it so much. Even so, he knew it would humiliate her to cum to him, and that made it that much better. He resolved to treat her to the treasures he purposefully refrained from bestowing her in the dungeon.

He removed his fingers from her mouth, lowered himself to his elbows once more, then working his way back inside her with his fingers, he teased her clit yet again whilst penetrating her with his eyes. Most of the time, she avoided the gaze; but he could see every time that she met his, hers were wracked with guilty pleasure. As he moved her closer once again to the pinnacle, this fact revealed itself to him loudly. His other free arm he used to tease her nipple once again, this time letting the weight at his elbow hold her thigh open. Her moans seemed to pick up where they left off, and he caught her biting her lip at least a couple of times, while a grim revelation struck her irises.

Her fingers balled into fists at the sides of her knees, with nothing else they could do but simply reveal pure white along the surface. "_Ah! Ah! Ah! Ahh!" _and the cries came out like a blurt, as if they had, and probably were, repressed for a good amount of time.

He mumbled against her clit, causing more vibrations, "_Buona…buona tesora._ _Vieni per papà._" He resumed the same motion and technique he used against her before he stopped last time, circling her sex between his lips and hounding the folds with the pressure of his tongue. He sped the motion, and in turn sped her breathing. Her diaphragm seemed to hitch, and she was from then lost to her senses.

The shame looked to have momentarily departed her features, her eyes, lips, brow; all that remained was the flush of her cheeks. Even so, there seemed to be an internal battle; one side clearly losing. She looked down at him, shame on her lips as she spoke, but in her eyes the plea was evident. "No-no-no-no-_no!" _Between each syllable was a pathetic gasp, and the pleas rang out as if something were about to be lost, ripped away from her.

Predator that Cioccolata was, he seized the opportunity to hound on the primality that betrayed her conscience for just a minute; he let up not one bit on his objective, only pinching her nipple harder than before as a reprimand. And in doing so, was when her final melt down took place. Her compulsive sobs rang around the bedroom, and her blue eyes shot open, transfixed on something imaginary.

Hopeless, helpless, exasperated, and powerful cries, they embedded in Cioccolata's mind. There was even something spiritual about them, as they arisen from somewhere deep in the gut, something unknown. After about eight seconds of her lingering cries, he hounded her again, raising off his elbows, he plunged his dick back in her, resuming the pace he left off at before he abandoned her for the auburn.

He wrapped his fingers around her throat, choking her, the other hand holding her at the diaphragm, which, with only one hand of his, could cover about half the length of her. His dick was completely cushioned inside, her walls feeling like blown up pillows secreting more than enough lubrication to keep him going. It was enough incentive to ravage her on, and when he caught her face, pushing to the one side, trying hard to escape his vision, he saw tears escaping her lids. It was harrowing distress for her apparently, no doubt her loss of control. The tears egged him on more, the blonde always awakened several of his fetishes at once, and he dug the tips of his thumb into her throat.

And knowing she was shamed from her cumming to him, he decided to rub salt into the wound. He knelt down over her, teasing her with his husky, lust-filled voice, "Vile,_ ragazza sporca. _The moment you see me serve you, then you cum…opportunistic I see,_" _He spat the last words cruelly.

Toward the ending of his fucking, he released her neck, freeing her airways, used both hands to push her thighs all the way to her sides, and pounced up and down on her lewdly, wildly, with trenchant ferocity while he sucked up her grief ridden features. It turned him on to think that there was a payback to be had for her unwilling pleasure.

He slammed his hand over her mouth to silence her cries, as he himself cried out in a beast like manner, emptying his seed in the blonde effectively. After stilling himself in her for about half a minute, he took a final look at her, appearing spent and disgraced. Satisfied, he withdrew himself in gladness, falling on his back. Then, no sooner that he was finished, he ordered Secco to take his pets back to their quarters.

He must have fallen asleep not long after, a habit of busting a good nut, exerting so much energy, for he remembered nothing then on.

Once he watched over this tape, which indeed, very much so, gave him pleasure, still revealed one of his pickles. Not only was it a bit cringey to see himself so shit-faced, but he realized on observing how wild he was with the blonde, so lost in lust, that his preference for her was not all there was to it.

As he bit his nails pondering on it, he realized that he just _had _to _really _make her his pet _now. A perfect pet. _There was no other way to cure how he felt, or his predicament. It did not occur to him that his diagnosed cure would only gradually curse him further.

.

After watching that "reunion" tape which followed the mock Saturnalia festivities, Cioccolata thought on this pickle of his more. It was now Christmas Eve. The truth was, the reunion tape was recorded exactly a week ago, and it was now that both girls were fully acclimated. For now, he would think about his fatter, bigger pickle which was the blonde.

Cioccolata now thought on this as he was slicing, in record time, zucchini for his meal. He already had a tea kettle on the stove for green tea. As he sliced away, he wondered ahead for tonight, of what he'd make him and Secco. Secco was completely lacking when it came to cooking, as expected. But Cioccolata was pretty good at all. For him, it was a bit of a task however, so he would prefer if someone else do it. Luckily, with Secco's own stipend, he often just ordered out. Then he found himself wondering if the blonde could cook. Once he made her his pet, then she could do it for them.

He smiled to himself as he thought on this, simultaneously taking out a large cod from the fridge, placing it on an already prepared cutting board on the island, and taking the meat cleaver in hand. He chopped off the fish's head, gutted it, and then proceeded to section off portions of its meat, all neatly and beautifully arranged. The fish's dismemberment was there presented as if it were merely a work of art.

From then on, he sautéed some of the fish on the pan with the zucchini, while also eating some of the meat raw. Most of the time he did this to test the freshness, but he also simply had no care one way or the other. It should be reasonable that if he relished in slaughtering people, he was not therefore turned off by consuming raw meats. And of course, the primality of it pleased him. Nothing could kill him, anyway!

He finished up his meal, with enough leftovers for Secco, and took his mug with seeped green tea in hand. Once he was in his parlor, he took a seat in his favorite recliner. He had a dog bed for Secco placed on the burgundy rug. He put Secco's portion, considerably smaller than Cioccolata's on the black feeding mat. The mat had some cute designs on it. A dog skull holding a bone and cursive text reading "Spoiled rotten." _He was._

Secco was laying in his dog bed, here in Cioccolata's suite after being informed of being fed, and so he knew what time it was. He crawled over to the bowl with the zucchini and sautéed cod and got to eating. Yeah, maybe this arrangement looked questionable. But everything about the man was so much that no added notation seemed to detract from the point. Cioccolata placed his plate on the glass end table a couple of feet away from the couch. As he ate, he resumed his thoughts on the blonde.

Now then, what were the prerequisites to becoming Cioccolata's pet? These items were not always clearly defined, although, he certainly had a template in his mind. Because of this, he had written out a list of traits and trails a slave of his would have to undergo before he would promote them to pet status. Secco was a rare exception to which would be explained later; he was formerly his patient, not once having been his literal slave…depending on perspective. His case was special, an outlier brought on by an unexpected and fateful "business proposition." He looked on him tenderly as he ate, just for a moment, then he referred to the physical copy of his "Pet prerequisites," which he had written out about 6 years ago now.

On the top of the page was something of an abstract. There was no reason at all that Cioccolata decided to write his list out in this academic nature, but perhaps it was force of habit after writing so many research papers in his academic career. It read:

_In my experience of taming and domesticating slaves, I have outlined several key traits, tendencies and mannerisms which I deem to be favorable in a submissive. The possession of such key features amongst my slaves bode good breeding and fecundity which I prize as most desirable. Written in descending order are my favored traits which I believe must be present in a slave for me to promote them to pet status. Characters toward the end are debatable and may be subject to change in lieu of other desirable variables._

_I. __At least moderate pain tolerance. Either physical, emotion, mental, or most preferably, all. Screaming is fun and all, but it wears itself out pretty fast. Reactions have proven to be the most satisfying._

_II. __Retaining a delicious look of distress, no matter how many different occasions I bed them. _

_III. __Ability to be molded into the perfect slave. Exhibits quick potential; that is, picks up on my orders and preferences fast. Performs without hesitation. Simple "yes" and "no," responses. This also includes how fast and readily they are to call me their master. _

_IV. _ _Flexibility. The natural ability of the slave's bones and muscles to be stretched close to its limits through bondage. _

_V. __Eccentricity, subtle observations, and peculiarities. There must be something, anything at all, that will stimulate my curiosity in them. Preference in being kept entertained for a while than quickly tiring._

_VI. __A petite and athletic build; somatotypes entail the concept of set personality traits of the given individual. i.e., preferred body type suggests loyalty, anxiously energetic, etc. _

_VII. __If a slave has blonde hair and blue eyes, this is an incredibly boon, (Less likely to bore)._

_VIII. __If, besides distress, I can see in their eyes and feel that they adore me. And this adoration drives them to give complete trust in me, understanding that their life is in my hands. This would make me truly feel alive; to look down upon one who is suffering the duality of fearing and adoring me._

_IX. __Reverence, adoration, and complete subordination. _

And that was all he wrote. Looking at it now, it was clear he could probably edit some things. Preferences change after all. But for the most part, it was still true to him.

He was going through the list in his head. The blonde met all the criteria perfectly, actually. The last one stood out to him and brought his heart to a solid hammer all at once. _Adoration…_does she? It didn't take long. All he had to do was recall his last drunken romp with her, and automatically, he realized that perhaps that moment of weakness for him paid off after all. If he could place his finger on it, then he would say she does. And him making her cum brought it out of her. Perhaps the way she looked at him then was only a small prelude of the future admiration she'd have for him. Yes…Cioccolata _deserved _some _respect._

He recounted all the ways she had behaved, from the moment he kidnapped her up until now. All the times he had fucked her, whipped her, gagged her, his examination on her, that wonderful time he had taken her virginity. He recalled that he also profiled, from that night, her entire body measurements, down to things most people would consider the most trivial—but it meant everything to him. Yes. _Yes. _She _was _perfect. She _is _perfect. She's perfect!

As he went through the reasons why, as dictated by his list, it all fit. She had great pain tolerance. The stitches on her were ripping at her skin back when he let Secco "clean" her, but she dealt with it. The pain wracked over her features was evident when he forced his way in her the first time, and she took it well. As he recalled it, she seemed often to be tapped into a mental strength despite her unfortunate situation. She didn't cry much or freak out into hysterical sobs like the auburn did. Her pain was _always _evident to him, but for a woman, she took them well enough.

Distress was always in her eyes, even the day he first saw her. And this was exquisitely pleasing to him like nothing else. She called him master very fast, she performed exceedingly well, always following his commands expertly. The fact that she seemed to be sad, distant, somewhere else completely, from when he first saw her, partly drove his curiosity. But the fact that she had so quickly adapted to being his slave, and did so, so very well, flummoxed him. It also pleased him to no end, she was truly what he would consider a strong organism fit for survival—taken out of her original environment, she was placed into an entirely foreign one and adapted.

Her body type _was _petite and athletic. He really loved it if a woman had a nice, sculpted, thick ass on her, but she already had a cute little toned one. It was nothing he couldn't will to happen by feeding her the right things and making her do them squats. He'd just take her to his gym within the estate. She also was, of course, a blonde. She had light blue, turquoise hued eyes. Her phenotype seemed most fit to be placed in a snow filled wilderness, and she'd thrive well enough. A true snow bunny.

Lastly, she was indeed flexible. This fact was proven time and time again. It was incredible that she fit everything. So rare was this the case…Although one came close.

He shook away the memory. He didn't have time to dwell into that one right now…

His eyes wandered to the glass table as he placed the sheet of "Pet prerequisites" down. He looked over at Secco who was laying back in his dog bed, his back facing him. The bowl was licked clean. His own plate was also cleared off. He was about to get up and place the dishes in the sink, but his mind was still running rapid with ideas of the blonde, of her coming promotion in status, a sort of liberation.

Then his eyes settled on a tiny serving bowl on the table with assorted chocolates inside. Right now, he had a few different brands and flavors placed in there, but around the holidays he also put in there the liquor filled chocolates. Cioccolata was his alias after all, so he had to live up to it in some way. Otherwise, it was quite a contradiction. Plus, he always did have a sweet tooth.

All of the small pieces of chocolate were wrapped in individual foils. There must have been about 6 different kinds in there, as he usually made sure there was a bit of a variety. He took a piece. He didn't really bother to see what it was. He simply unwrapped the foil and ate the whole bite sized piece.

Once it was in his mouth and he was chewing though, he noticed the taste of caramel on his tongue. It was dark chocolate with a caramel filling. _Interessante. _

After he swallowed, he thought about what he had just eaten.

_Caramel. _He thought. _It goes really well with chocolate. It always does. And typically, the caramel is inside the chocolate, like this one. It just tastes the best that way… Chocolate and caramel are the perfect blend. _

Then he thought about the blonde again. _Caramel… _

He grew excited yet again, and it wasn't the sugar hitting him. He had decided on a pet name for the blonde! _Caramella! _

Now he was cheesing wide in ecstasy, he felt like a child again. He almost wanted to run to the opposite manor and retrieve her, in the portion of his estate which would be the primary abode for not only her, but the auburn and all his future slaves. For the past month, she had spent most of her time down in the dungeon with the auburn. The auburn…he needed a name for her too, though he obviously wasn't as excited to find one as he was for Caramella.

He rummaged a bit through the chocolate bowl again. This time, by random he picked out a round, hazelnut chocolate in a red and silver foil wrapping. _Nocciola. _Was it a good name? That was the question. But of course it was, the auburn didn't exactly make a graceful transition in status, even now that she was removed from the dungeon; she was clumsy and awkward. It was probably the case that after Cioccolata's training (including branding of both), she was left a little nutty. It was a good name, just as well as Caramella.

With that done, he distracted himself then for a moment by delivering the dishes to the sink, where, at least on this occasion, Secco would take care of. He leaned his elbow on the kitchen island, crossed his one leg over the other as he stood, and thought over the things he could recall from him and Secco's festivities—memories that now weren't clouded by the drunken stupor.

.

It was the custom of Saturnalia not only to exchange gifts, but to name one who would be dubbed "the king of Saturnalia." As in the name, Saturn was obviously the deity to which the celebrations were revolved around; the god for which mortals aspired to be on equal footing with. And so, it might have seemed to make more sense to describe Cioccolata as the king of Saturnalia. His birthday took place in early January, specifically on the 4th. As such, he was a Capricorn; whose lord was Saturn—the Father, Elder, Wiseman, and in some symbolisms, Satan.

However, making Cioccolata the king of these festivities defeats the purpose. It was customary to name a slave/servant as king. The candidates therefore were Secco, Caramella, or Nocciola. Secco however, not only had seniority but history and absolute trust with Cioccolata. Not only that, but women obviously couldn't be named kings…Secco was the only choice.

Naming his subordinate king for the coming week of hedonism was an interesting one for Cioccolata. Under any other circumstances, there would be no chance in hell of it. Getting drunk loosened him up though, and he was able to enjoy a switch in status which was never before experienced for him…Well, besides that _one time_ many years ago.

Secco was feverish with excitement to be named the king of Saturnalia. He wore an enamel crown and found himself also a studded jewel wand to fit the part. His excitement would have normally been of no consequence to Cioccolata, who, after all, was quite used to seeing him lively with misdirected energy. But the power, even this illusion of it, went to his head. He barged around the manor proclaiming his status and swinging around the wand, though luckily, not damaging any furniture. Such a circumstance would unmask the reality of the power dynamic, which would end in Cioccolata breaking more than further furniture. Nobody would be having a good time, in that case.

But Secco successfully directed his energy into games between him, Cioccolata and the girls. They exchanged gifts, but Secco demanded the most—he required the entire stash of sugar cubes.

"T-this is a stick up!" He announced, pointing the wand obnoxiously far too close for comfort in Cioccolata's face, then shouting with more aggression, "H-hand them—_hand them over!"_

Cioccolata was seated in the black recliner, he crossed one ankle over his knee with indifference before replying, "Lower that wand from my face."

His heavy, stern tone brought up some anxiety in Caramella's chest, who was seated in the adjoining loveseat nearest to him. No longer in the disheveled hospital gown she was fitted in after her kidnap, she and Nocciola wore the same clothes from that day weaved by the hands of Fata. For Nocciola, this meant she was in her jogging get up, for Caramella, her school uniform minus the red and white patched jacket. Their clothes were clean, and she did briefly wonder if they would be wearing anything else, anytime soon.

Her pale-yellow blouse was customarily tucked into her gray pleated skirt out of sheer habit, and having been returned even her scrunchie, tied the top half of her hair back once more save for the two long tendrils of bangs on either side of her temples. It was the only small sense of autonomy she was allowed of herself. She had not her oxfords on, but slippers Secco had supplied both girls with, and she wore her long sheer socks.

Secco did not lower the wand, he maintained his bratty attitude, saying, "NO! _I'm _the m-master now, remember!? I can do what I want! HEeheheeehee!—"

Cioccolata snapped; he quickly shifted his ankle from his leg and stamped his sole on the floor, yelling, _"GET THAT FUCKING WAND OUT OF MY FACE, STRONZO!" _

_"EEeeeEeep!—" _exclaimed Secco, and he lowered the wand out of shock over obedience. The outburst was much like a man reprimanding a misbehaving dog and it was. Caramella too, given her nearest and unfortunate proximity to Cioccolata, jumped in her seat, lifting her wrists to her face in fright of the outburst—a shriek escaping her throat. Nocciola remained unaffected.

Secco surprisingly maintained his position, only slightly affected by this outburst of anger. He might have been quite used to these things. "Th-that's not right though, Cio-Cioccolata! Y-you're not playing—playin' fair!"

"Fairness be hanged!" He barked, though at least several notches lower than his original outburst, he continued in a fast pace, "This isn't a pass for you to make a scene, get your shit together before I slam you."

He almost spoke to him as if he were his son, which might have been the case, in some type of twisted, perverted way. Secco looked at the wand in his hand dejectedly, then plopped on the opposite couch, but not without whining, "You're no fun sometimes…"

Cioccolata didn't pay him any attention now, he moved on to the bottle of Graves on the glass end table, and after taking a swig, suggested, "If you insist on swinging that wand in somebody's face, why not Nocciola? She's used to having rod shaped objects in her face."

This happened often, and Caramella's powers of observation were like no others. Cioccolata often suggested and even encouraged Secco to harass Nocciola; watching her distress was entertainment for him. But not once, at least thus far, did he encourage it upon herself.

…Not that it was any better for that fact. He simply preferred harassing her personally.

Secco was happy for this, he went about doing so, to which Nocciola wore a look of repressed dread at his approach. His torment of her only lasted but for a few minutes until Secco resumed demanding another shot of liquor. After downing it, he changed the subject.

"OOOoooooOOHH! I-I know what w-we'll all play now!" He chuckled maddeningly, his pale blue eyes crazed, "T-the hotseat, right!? Cioccolata, isn't that what they call it?!"

"Sure," Cioccolata replied, now clipping a cigar. Caramella snuck glances at him doing so, not relieved to see that she would now be forced to endure secondhand smoke in combination with the nauseating smell of booze. What was worse was that, during this "Saturnalia" occasion, she and Nocciola were also forcefully encouraged to drink.

Her mind then drifted wistfully to that occasion when this all began, when he and Secco had forced themselves both on her and Nocciola. Not only were they clearly drunk, but they literally had forced the alcohol down both their throats to follow suit. Secco had done so to Nocciola, and Cioccolata to Caramella.

She hardly knew if these drunken orgies were any better than the treatment they had endured down in the dungeon. For all their "training," they were completely sober, and indeed, that seemed to whet the metaphoric blade of cruelty for them both. But this new arrangement left her with a horrid sense of emptiness and nihilism in its place.

Many times, in the dungeon, after about two weeks, if her counting was correct, she noticed that she had begun to crave Cioccolata's return. It was something she didn't like to admit to herself, but her awareness and foresight was clear. She hardly could say what was happening to herself, let alone to understand that it was a common symptom of budding Stockholm syndrome—she was only a teenager after all, a child. She was not taught psychology in school yet, thus she had no understanding of the Pavlovian nature she had been purposefully groomed with.

Instead, she regarded it as a defect upon herself, something that pointed more to her own fault as a woman rather than a perfectly explainable phenomena backed by empirical data. She hated herself for it evermore, scorned the desire she began to feel for his touch—consequently feeling as though God had abandoned her due to a predetermined, poor writing of her moral character…her emotional pain thus embedded itself into her matrix, it could not be separated without destroying the host completely. In the bowels of her master's estate she had found a version of herself which she had not previously dreamed was possible—it was as though the curtain had been lifted on who she truly was…a fallen woman.

Secco was standing with renewed vigor to begin his game of the hotseat. He slapped the wand in his hand and circled around the room, before stopping in front of them all, smiling as wide as the Cheshire cat.

"I'm the k-KING of Saturn-nalia! And I choose C-cioccolata to be on the _HOTSEAT!" _He announced.

Cioccolata could have guessed he'd call on him, he was the most interesting of course. Who wouldn't want to know about him?

Secco went on to decide who would ask the questions, so he swung the wand from left to right pointed at either Caramella or Nocciola, humming aloud, "E-Eeny, meeny, m-miny, moe!—catch a cubie on y-your toes, if y-you slip, _don't_ _let it go!—_Eeny, m-meeny, miny—_MOE!_"

The wand landed unfortunately on Nocciola, who looked to sink deeper into the loveseat.

"Y-you! Ask Cioccolata a question! ANY question!"

Reluctant wasn't the word to describe the woman. Her lips parted as if to speak and closed again. Secco noticed and reassured her with, "D-don't worry! Cioccolata will answer _a-any _question, isn't that right C-Cioccolata?!" Secco turned to him.

Cioccolata nodded his head as he took a puff of the cigar, a long, dark wrapper with an emblem and Honduran flag still plastered upon it. In a mist of smoke, he added with a smirk, "Of course. What do I have to hide?"

It took more prodding than that to finally butter up Nocciola into asking a question, but it was finally accomplished. Caramella watched all this as if in a dream, the swirl of smoke enveloping her vision to the point that she daydreamed of being anywhere else but here, in this immaculate marble, fur and hickory pallor provided for by a man with untold riches.

"W-why did you kidnap us…?" Was Nocciola's question, and it came out with clear trepidation, so much so, that her tone seemed to crawl under Caramella's skin, until her soul was saturated with the terror behind the woman's concealed tone.

It was just a bit of silence on account of Cioccolata's next puff. "Why? Because I was bored," he replied flatly. Indeed, she had begged the question as if there needed to be some further explanation other than this.

Secco erupted into laughter, who assured them both that this was no lie. To think that their fate and entire lives had been sealed, by the whim of a man's boredom and entertainment. It left one to wonder if all the risk involved in the criminal act was even worth it, but then he answered the unaired question.

"…I've also just always dreamed to have a harem. A small cult of women who adore me. It's every sane man's dream," He continued as if in a reverie.

The statement was contradicting, he was insane, yet he regarded this ambition as that of a "sane man's." This indicated that Cioccolata perhaps did not view himself as insane, and like all madmen, felt there was something wrong with everyone else.

"Not to mention, I'm of age that I start thinking of planting my _seeds." _He turned his head to face both women after saying this, driving his point.

Caramella was unable to look back to see the reaction on Nocciola's face; all she did know was that her own face dropped as she caught his meaning. She slowly turned her face to her one-month dungeon cell partner finally, but the action and its consequence did not relieve her.

Nocciola was pallor, her mocha brown eyes glazed and deathly still. Caramella understood that she felt exactly as she did, and possibly even worse. When you're forced to live in a dehumanizing medieval jail cell in the company of only one other across from you, it was only natural that the two of you would bond, regardless of background or if you had previously known each other or not. The same held true even in modern day prisons.

Caramella witnessed her pain, and Nocciola hers. It was shared, along with the stories of their "past lives." She also was told the story of what Cioccolata and Secco did to her unborn child. To her, it was far worse than the things of nightmares; true horror—classic or contemporary unmatched.

To hear now that it was suggested that they both were to become breeding tools was unthinkable—an unfathomed and prehistoric destiny for the nearly 21st century woman. Not only that, but Cioccolata spoke of a harem. And that only meant one thing.

This wasn't going to end with just them. There were more women to come.

"Next! I-it's your turn _now, _Cara-mella!" He dragged out her name in a jape.

Her heart leapt at being called upon, and she shut her eyes, finding the resolve to pick up where Nocciola had left off. She did have many questions for Cioccolata, ones she would normally be too afraid to ask under normal circumstances…But she saw, or felt at least, given these games, that it was truly okay to ask him anything. Her intuition assured her of it.

She looked at the man, her master who now sat level with her aided by the illusion of being now her equal, or less than.

"How many…how many other women?" She asked with admirable assertion.

Cioccolata understood her context immediately. He replied, "I plan on about five or six more."

It was only a moment, one where she heard the inspiration of Nocciola, and she pressed further on the subject, "When—"

She was cut short abruptly now by Secco. Her mouth had closed as soon as it had opened.

"_BRZZZZ!_ Now _you're _not playing f-fair Caramella! _I _didn't give yo-you permission, hehehee." Secco mocked her, but Cioccolata raised his palm as if to silence Secco.

"Let her ask the question; she's curious," He spat sternly. Indeed, he wore an expression as if to say that Secco had violated an ancient, proverbial law.

Secco relented, looking from Cioccolata to Caramella and back again; but he wasn't pleased. He ended the standoff with a sulk, so Caramella resumed her question after Cioccolata told her, "Go ahead."

"…When do you plan on…us having _your_ kids?" she asked now, meekly and feeling embarrassed by her own question.

"I have no exact plans on it. You think highly of me." He had poured himself another shot during this time, and it was during this time he eyed Caremella's own glass, to make sure she was drinking as well. His eyes slowly trailed up her figure afterward, and the gaze left her face feeling flushed on top of the natural heat she felt in her body from the alcohol.

"You might be already," he flashed a full grin with those perfect, straight white teeth she had grown so accustomed to in the dungeon. It brought back those memories in a flash, and her heart felt suddenly full as it fluttered.

She damned herself as soon as it began, blaming the alcohol coursing through her system. But it was that same bit of intoxication that gave her the nerve to engage him more.

"Shouldn't we _not_ be having any of this then," she took her glass in hand, giving it a slight jolt, "just in case?"

"Nonsense," He replied curtly and without skipping a beat, "You haven't shown any symptoms of it."

But what if she had only just conceived? She thought this, but let it go, given how flippant he treated her question. The thought then struck her that he was lying about not having it planned.

"O-okay! You got your second question, so n-now Nocciola has to h-have hers." Secco announced with renewed vigor, but he mumbled under his breath, "_Cheaters…" _

He pointed the wand on Nocciola expectantly, and she looked to be taken off guard yet again. Soon enough however, she seemingly leapt at the chance to make more inquiries, taking advantage of this chance when God knows when they'd ever be able to so openly again.

"…Who are you really? D-do you have a name?"

Cioccolata cocked his head at an angle to this question, he spoke with clear sarcasm, "I told you both my name. It's Cioccolata."

Nocciola's eyes closed as she absorbed this. She assumed this name was an alias, and for that assumption, she would be right. She understood that her question was meant to ask his _real _name.

Cioccolata scoffed; he understood the true nature of her question but saw no harm in trying to make an ass out of her. "I'm not at liberty to provide _either of you_ with my name. It would be bad for business. Do you understand?"

But she didn't, and neither did Caramella. His question dropped without any further dialogue between all, before Secco chipped in once more, urging Nocciola onto her second and final question.

She consented, gearing toward some normalcy, and also to probe his comment of "business," she asked next: "What is it that you do for work…?" She averted her eyes to his lap, gulping, "…your business?"

His eyes seemed to scrutinize her in their hardening until he answered, "I'm a doctor."

Caramella's eyes widened simultaneous with her moment of frayed vision. Nocciola too, looked mystified. But Secco put an end to all this with his following outburst.

_"BRZZZ! _Heehee! Y-you keep this up, C-Cioccolata, and your nose is going to g-get bigger!" shrilled Secco.

Now Cioccolata looked to be scrutinizing Secco instead.

"Don't believe him, you can clearly see the guy is a maniac." Cioccolata answered smugly to his two girls.

They were both maniacs in their eyes, but they had reason to believe Cioccolata, _especially_ Nocciola. Even Caramella found his occupation to stand for reason; she recalled all the medical instruments, as well as that room…_that_ dreaded room…

Secco shrugged off the slight with each precarious wave of his wand, while Cioccolata regarded him with aversion, clearly discomforted by it. "Th-these questions are booorring! Now _I'm _g-gonna ask the questions! Heehee," he chimed almost in sync with the waving of his wand. He looked to fancy himself some type of fairy rather than a king.

Secco curled his lips into a wide grin, letting Cioccolata, Caramella and Nocciola fully absorb his slightly crooked and stupid demeanor.

"L-let's see…ehehehe…H-how many women did you sleep with, C-Cioccolata?" Secco was almost ready to point the wand in Cioccolata's face again, but even in a time like this where he was the mock master, he knew better—having recalled Cioccolata's previous scathing remark, he kept the wand level with his hip. This made him a bit antsy, and it revealed itself in his voice.

Cioccolata looked about the same since the inquisitees began; he sat with one arm framing the top of the armchair, his legs crossed and with one foot on the ground, tapped it on the waxed floor at unpredictable intervals. All looked the same of his countenance except for the slight narrowing of his eyes which brought about the outline of his finely rounded eyeballs. It wasn't that he found the question distasteful but that he couldn't place a number to serve as an answer to his subordinate's question.

"It seems I've lost count," he answered with suave and characteristic dissimulation.

There was a sound effect in response from a confounded Secco, while the girls merely sat back with hardly any recognition, especially from Nocciola. Caramella felt a slight jolt in her chest at Secco's question, perhaps the bawdiness of it rustled her innocent soul too deeply, while Nocciola sat in her seat as if she were stone dead as always. And yet, his question did pique her curiosity, if but for a scantling. Her slightly buggy turquoise eyes flicked from Secco to Cioccolata.

Nothing escaped her master. He spotted the rapid shifts of her orbits, then grinned knowingly. His eyes did catch hers, and once they did, she melted inside. If she were a turtle, she'd immediately seek refuge within her own shell and would never even so much as peek for even the promise of a welcomed sunbeam.

Cioccolata tapped his foot again, resuming, _"Centoventi."_

There was some silence, interrupted only by the stamp on the floor which was caused by the wand. Secco, in his astonishment, let the bottom of the rod drop.

"Ciio—Cioccolataaa!" Was the only thing that came from Secco's gaping mouth.

Nocciola, for someone who had spent at least one entire month with turbulently expressive emotions, was still as quietly resolute as one who is buried as least 6 feet under—she had only the Ptolemies to contend with for want of a more severe look.

Caramella, on the other hand, wore the shoe quite on the opposite foot. Her expression flashed initially from revulsion to that of straightened, morose lips which held the impression of compressing contempt. It made sense to no one why it bothered her so, even to her own self; she held no explanation for it, and the omniscient could only suppose it was once again on account of her virtuous soul. Rightfully so—what woman with the status that Caramella held as a former virgin—would feel honored to be added to such a profane pail?

Cioccolata's lull of words reverted her attention back to him, though she didn't show it by looking at him. "That's right," he maintained, "You've got to figure, I've been active since I was 13. Since then, I would say I've slept with about five or six women per year. There's been some dry periods—med school for one. But looking back, I would say I've been pretty consistent, as I am with all matters," his last remark came across as nonchalantly arrogant especially, in combination with his ribald recollection of his sexual prowess.

One thing was revealed through this disclosure. If Cioccolata didn't already regard women as objects when considering that he thought it was well and fine to outright kidnap them from the streets, one would need no further persuasion to convince them that he was quite a pig. However, the fact of how many women he slept with served as irrelevant evidence for disclosure when considering the above facts.

Cioccolata regarded Caramella just then, continuing, "What is your face scrunched for, hm?" his tone came off as a mock, but he straightened himself somewhat, "They always act like it's the man that takes advantage of the woman, but do they mention that the women allow it? How would men like me be able to scrap together so much experience if _they_ weren't at least willing? There, I said it. Now add that to your food for thought." He declared almost in triumph, as if there was some silent battle between them which left him in need of a good defense.

Caramella continued to look down, it did indeed give her some food for thought, though hardly the one she wanted, for it festered in her mind—as it would continue to for the remainder of the night. But she was caught off guard from fully absorbing this meal when she felt his hand creep on her thigh, the tips of his fingers drumming along to an invisible beat. Now of all times, his touch mortified her without a trace of that wicked delight she had come to know at some point during her encampment in the dungeon. It simply was not the right moment.

_"Please…"_ She managed to muster, but it came out slight, completely lacking in any resolve.

Cioccolata disregarded it as he did most things that he found of no concern or value to him, asserting, "I'll humor you with _this…_you would be the first woman that I've raped, as well as the youngest."

He concluded with this as if it were some type of meed for her, or at least that she would receive it as such. Though it was likely his callous choice of wording was exactly made with the intent to do harm. Her mouth had slightly opened in response, but of course, nothing was uttered but a breath.

Secco thankfully interrupted Cioccolata's piercing attention away from her with an outburst. _"BRRZZ! _The lie detector has determined th-that w-was a LIE!" Secco proudly exclaimed, waving his wand anew. "Th-that's a lie, C-cioccolata!" He exclaimed, feeling quite pleased that he was able to use a line from his favorite American talk show.

Cioccolata, to Caramella's relief, removed himself from her and sat back straight against his recliner with the same repossessed suavity which he once sat with at the court bench during the malpractice trial. He said nothing, and indeed, felt nothing at that. He simply glared at Secco with his ridiculous rambling apathetically.

He made no comment thereof, so Secco continued, this time, putting the wand to a point at Cioccolata's face, (while not having it too close like the first time.)

"Y-yeah! You told me one time that you _drugged _a girl! OH! O—OHHH! W-wasn't it that goth girl…?" He trailed off into thought, lowering the wand which Cioccolata was watching pointedly.

"Oh yes, 'Gothy.'" He referred to her as, "I gave her an aphrodisiac, among other things. Intoxication doesn't count, Secco. Don't you understand that they only lower their inhibitions? What comes next is straightforward seduction. It can't be compared," He maintained with a bit of a huff, crossing his leg again, but otherwise grateful to shoot down this objection.

"Hmmm," Secco rubbed his chin now, it did seem the blurred lines between seduction and rape were now _his _food for thought.

"Besides," Cioccolata began to now reminisce, "That girl was absolute trash, and she enjoyed being treated as just that. Even without my help, she was always shit faced—she even pissed herself once. A girl like that would have spread her legs for every Tom, Dick _or _Harry."

Despite Caramella's grotesque regard for this conversation, and the vulgar language which was presently exchanged between Cioccolata and Secco, she hoped that Secco would resume the questions, and that she may be called upon once more.

But what happened next, wasn't what she had expected. This bit of conversation between the two men eventually turned to her, when she noticed Cioccolata eyeing her chest. Nervous by the shift in attention, she looked over her blouse, wondering if she had spilled any of her own drink, but saw nothing. She looked back up at him, and he cleared up his intrigue.

"I'm only examining the crest of your former school. I recognize it." It was true, he noticed it when he had first removed her clothes over a month ago. He already had figured out that it belonged to _Our Lady Galla of Rome_; an all-girls Catholic school. But from what he knew of that school was that it was private, and no doubt, parents had to have a decent amount of money to send their daughters there.

Simply put, Caramella did not strike him as hailing from a privileged background, but of one of poor breeding, as least economically while not racially.

Cioccolata was a touchy feely type, like many of his countrymen. He laid his fingers then upon the embroidery of the crest upon her right breast before he tapped his pointer at the apex.

_"How is it," _he spoke slowly, deliberately, "That you were able to attend _this_ school? Not only do you need to be loaded, but they select based on a _lottery._"

"H—EY HEY!" Secco barked, "Y-you're on the _HOTSEAT! We_ a-ask the questions!"

Secco turned to Caramella after the ensuing dispute between master and subordinate, in which a compromise was struck up—ask Caramella if _she_ would allow this question. Obviously Cioccolata was in good enough spirits to allow a woman to decide, but it was only because he really did want to properly engage these games.

Caramella did allow it, so she replied now, "I was a special case…My mother wrote a letter vouching for me, since I've always achieved honors. The head nun agreed to interview me, and I was accepted."

And so, not even Fortuna was responsible for Caramella's admission, like all the rest.

Cioccolata smirked before peering into his glass, then leered back at the girl, "So your admission was out of an act of charity." He tilted his head as if looking down at her, and it certainly felt that way, "Leave it to the Christians, heh. I'm sure that nun took one look at you and was moved by all the self-pity in her own heart—she certainly had enough room to extend some grace upon another pitiful creature."

Cioccolata often spoke to her like this; this hot and cold temperament. Many times already he almost sounded to be complimenting her genuinely, until an invisible switch led him into belittling her. It was truly walking on eggshells with a man like him, and already, she was used to this churning cohabitation. So far however, she learned that the matter of Catholicism was one that seemed to push that invisible button—despite the irony of the large blue cross embroidered on his chest.

She looked down at her lap now, away from his scorching, callous eyes. She mumbled, "I-it's not like that…"

But Cioccolata interjected, "Look at me when you speak. I'm not a master today or the rest of the week, after all. Speak to me _as if_ I were your underling—how I speak to him." He was referring to Secco, of course.

Caramella looked at him, taken off again by his change his attitude, that he was actually giving her some type of advice. She really was going to try again, but _now _Secco interjected.

"I-if you tell her t-that, then you're _not_ an under—ling!"

Cioccolata sucked his teeth in and quipped, "Well, I can't help it that being a master is so much a part of my blood that I need to school you fools on how to do it properly!"

After the quarreling, Caramella resumed due to the attention Cioccolata once again gave her. On this, he was always courteous to her. "I worked hard for those marks; my acceptance was deserved."

She said this with a bit of melancholy, as it was sad to remember that she was plucked from her Christian education on the eve of her would be coming graduation.

Cioccolata swirled the Graves in his glass, the cigar put aside on its glass tray. "…What do little girls know of working hard? Either educationally, or in the workforce. All weaklings ever do is look for a pass, a handout—and that's just what you got. Good thing I'm providing you with a far better education than you can ever hope for in those Semitic lies."

Caramella opened her mouth, but she lost the nerve the alcohol had been backing for her. The bitterness in his tone left her dull. Whatever made him so nasty? Drinking didn't seem to help him; instead it seemed to make him more outspoken. She had never questioned the culture for which she was brought up in, and no one else ever did either. Hearing Cioccolata speak down on Christianity, therefore, was profound for her. This bit of offense she took for breaking with tradition, left her with reinvigorated nerve.

"Are you an atheist?" she asked.

There was a pause, he curled his lips before replying, "Yes and no…Tell me, what makes you think that a faith erected from a Jewish tribe is in any way Italian? If you're so desperate for a resurrection narrative, why not worship Mithras instead of Jesus? To each his own, I say. It's not for our people, and we have Constantine the Fool to thank for it."

She thought on this, she truly contemplated. It was true that she hadn't more attachment to her brought up religion than what was tradition. She sung the hymns well and found comfort in all the statuette Madonna's especially…but the question of if she had any profound belief in it all was a vague one. The idea of a God was unquestionable to her, but she found herself wondering if He was something truly comprehensible to the human mind.

Cioccolata spoke again, breaking her from the thoughts to which he was pleased to see the look of pondering over her brows. "That school you go to used to be a boarding school for boys; I graduated from there," He flashed a perfect grin then, continuing, "When you were being potty trained, very likely. Class of '84."

Caramella heard this about her school before, and that it naturally went by a different name, one of a male saint. What was astounding to her, was to know that he attended a Catholic school, the same one geographically speaking, as her.

But just as Cioccolata finished his sentence, his phone began ringing and vibrating in his pocket. "Hm?"

His large hand felt around inside the pocket of his white trousers until he removed his chunky black Razr phone. He eyed the text banner on the lit up green screen. _Another _one of those telemarketers. It was bad enough they called the landline at all hours of the night, now they somehow had gotten ahold of his cell number!

There was a loud beeping noise as his thick thumb came down on the button with the green phone icon, and he held the phone to his ear.

_"Pronto," _he spoke into the pathetically small cellphone which only made his hands look even more ginormous than what they were.

Secco and the girls watched him as they all had nothing else better to do. There were only a few seconds of silence as Cioccolata then spoke into the receiver with a scathing tone accompanied by a completely disinterested look plastered over his features.

"Take my number off of your list." He hung up.

Secco erupted into laughter after the fact, to which Cioccolata did not share the same enthusiasm. Nocciola only had looked away, slumping more into her loveseat, relieved by the reprieve.

Caramella even, found only slight humor in this. The interruption seemed to spring on a new round of games, and she found herself mentally cursing whoever had called Cioccolata, as she found herself genuinely intrigued with the conversation between them.

She had no inkling that Cioccolata, at the very time she did, also had partaken to a brash internal discourse, provided by a passion much like her own—he too found pleasure in her intellectual company.


	10. Chapter 10

_Arousing me now with a sense of desire,_

_Possessing my soul till my body's on fire._

_A dark angel of sin, _

_Preying deep from within,_

_Come take me in. ~A Touch of Evil, Judas Priest_

* * *

_**Capitolo X: **_

_-L'epoca d'oro: seconda fase-_

_17-24, December 1999_

One thing that the mock Saturnalia festivities could not alleviate, was the pain from the memory of the dungeon. Of course, for Secco and Cioccolata, the memory for them was unmarked, completely unblemished—an ever-distancing memory of cruel and hedonistic delight. For Secco, it was perhaps just another duty off his hands, as he was the one responsible for bringing the slaves their food, letting them to the bathroom several times per day, and taking note of any other ailments to relay to Cioccolata. As far as work was concerned, the only work Cioccolata put in toward them was the dicking down. Secco had his cut of this as well, so his reward in it all was at least earned, in some sense, for his effort.

Something from the start that struck Caramella was the fact that Secco only ever participated in the raping of Nocciola. Not once did Cioccolata allow otherwise. Her "training" was much different than Nocciola's in that it was completely intimate—between her and Cioccolata exclusively. She didn't know if this were a blessing or a curse. Sure, she wasn't getting raped from two people at once. But she obviously didn't want to be so intimate and alone with the obviously, worse madman, clearly the master to the other.

This difference in how they were trained produced some slightly different results that even she could witness. Nocciola was broken by the time the month was through; you could see in the stony and filmy gaze in her eyes. Her demeanor had changed, even before they were moved upstairs. Caramella was used to Nocciola crying to her, to which Caramella sometimes cried with her. But the disturbing piece in it all was how after two weeks, Nocciola had changed. For each visit of Cioccolata, she died more.

Selfish as it may be, Caramella began caring less about what happened in the other woman's adjacent cell than what had went on in her own. For the first two weeks, the echoes of screaming and wailing was a horrible one, and a worse one to doze off to. But after that midway period, it dulled into a silent "C'est la vie;" it became a part of daily living. There were periods of silence in the dungeon, and that was welcome just as well as tears and screams.

One of the most terrifying experiences they had endured was the branding of their outer thighs. This was around the mentioned two-week period, and perhaps this was the final nail in the coffin for Nocciola. She was branded first, then Caramella. This was exactly what made it more terrifying for Caramella; seeing and hearing what was going on in the cell across from her, having a hope that she wouldn't be getting that as well—some irrational belief that this was a punishment only meant for Nocciola and not her.

She truly did fancy these hopes, which may come across to the reader, as cold, disconnected and dishonorable. However, it's unlikely any reader nor the writer can relate to such a captivity, nor the very primal, fight for survival that one would experience in such insurmountable circumstances. If one wanted to have a taste of raw, human nature, they had better fill out their application to be accepted within Cioccolata's rape dungeon.

Therefore, Caramella's only consolation during Nocciola's branding was that surely she would not also be branded. The strangest cognitions occurred in her psyche, as she huddled her knees and thighs against her, wrapped by her own slim arms.

_It's happening to her but, surely that means it won't also be me… _

She believed it, and it helped ease her mind; the screaming was less personalized. Her pain bore no association to Caramella, it was an experience that could only be felt by Nocciola, and only Nocciola. In fact, she was the only woman in the world who would ever experience that type of torture. Not only that, but Nocciola often misbehaved, it's natural that she would be punished.

Caramella's thoughts spiraled in this such way, increasingly non sequitur they became, an absurd flow of rationalizations and denial. They went on and all was well, before a shirtless and ripped Cioccolata stood in front of her cell, leering at her with a look that foretold the near future for her person.

Like this, was she was also branded by an iron in the shape of what looked to be a cross or the letter "T." She knew this symbol to be familiar, and realized that it was the one she had often seen on his sleeves, though they were absent today, and as such, could be given no reference. It was his way of marking them as his own for life; it didn't take a genius to figure that out or its meaning. It killed her inside, not only the physical pain, but to see the look on his face as he abused her in such a way. It wasn't different at all however, than the expression she was used to seeing on him. His features shifted from complete apathy to sopping delight interchangeably.

…It was after these days that Cioccolata grew even more hungry, and that seemed to be on account of an added incentive for him.

It took some time to analyze, but she did realize what that incentive was, at least on her part. It was that he enjoyed seeing them finally show the first signs of complete submission to him, in body and spirit.

For instance, although Caramella could not have previously imagined that she would ever stoop this low, she became quite shameless in how she called out to him or Secco for her necessities. She begged him not hurt her, pleaded that he go slower (when he ravaged her), and sometimes even kissed his loafers upon his entrance in hopes that it would lessen the extremity of her training. She also had succumbed to the excitement upon hearing his footsteps, and what was once relief when he had stopped at Nocciola's cell rather than her's, slowly dipped to disappointment, of all things.

"I see the first phase is over…and now it's the honeymoon," he breathed at one point, having entered her cell and seeing the polarity of dread and need in her eyes.

She crawled over to him this time, no longer hiding in the corner or waiting for him to initiate the commands. Her arms wrapped around his leg, the soft fabric of the well fitted trousers already filling her with the desire, the need to warm herself with her shabby attire.

"Master Cioccolata…! M-Master, how do you feel today?" She looked up at him then, with a well-trained attempt at puppy dog eyes.

He shrugged her off his leg then, with a look of triumph before seating himself upon a short, wooden cask which was, apparently, best suited as a chair.

"It's delightful to see my favorite pet is already so well behaved. And for that…I feel happy, that's how I feel," said an indeed, happy Cioccolata.

Her eyes lit up, seeing an opportunity in this, she crawled back to his new location, between his legs, huddling to her only source of heat in this cold dungeon. She was never too obnoxiously vocal with him, choosing to say only what she felt or knew to be vital to him.

He scanned her demeanor, seeing her huddle to him for warmth was giving him an ego boost and consequently, a boner.

"You're so needy, so ready to serve me lately." He reached down and opened his palm before her face in invitation. She knew what this meant, and laid her cheek into the large surface, nuzzling up and down, savoring the emanating heat. When satisfied, she tilted her face so only her chin had a seat in his palm. He withdrew it then, pressing his thumb into her cheek somewhat hard, and she felt her heart speed.

"I see…" He loomed over her, scrutinizing her features, and each moment those callous eyes scanned her felt to be an eternity; like waiting for the guillotine blade to fall. And so, when he spoke again, his heavy voice sliced through the silent, chill air like the audible, horizontal swish of a blade through heavy air, coming directly for her. "You're still more concerned with your own needs. It's natural, I understand that you're only human too. But it still means that we have to train you more."

Her breathing stilled at the mention of more training, and she shut her eyes in resignation. She understood very well that a huge object in her training was to separate her sense of self to the point her only concern be meeting her master's needs. Still, her mind almost broke at the thought of more training, yet she did not; her body gave way not even with a small quiver. He noted this too and thought to offer her up a deal.

"I'll tell you what, I'll allow you to do me a favor now to make up for it. You're curious to know what it will be like when I take you upstairs, aren't you?"

Caramella nodded her head, but otherwise remained deathly still. She had already noticed of course, the bulge in his pants. She knew what was coming, oral sex was almost always included in all their sessions. She knew well by now that it was one of his favorites and he could hardly get enough of it.

It was just what was being offered. He unzipped his pants slowly, then removed his impressive length in her direction with expectation.

There was no hesitation for her at this point, she was so desensitized to this. Despite the fact that she had never sucked dick in her life prior to these few months, she felt as though she had been doing it her entire life. What was life before captivity? Her old life slowly slipped away, so distant it could be mistaken as a past life. This was the new life, and it was liberation, ironically.

Maidenhood was ancient in this age of degeneracy after all. Wherefore does any woman, in the face of the endless string of sexual and human abuses that was provoked by the aforementioned age, ever cling to it? In any case, maidenhood became associated with who she _was _for the past 17 years, a life she found best to forget, leaving only her damaged, torn roots in hereafter. In hindsight, she could see those lingering roots struck up, hardly holding onto the soil for which they stemmed from. It was a weak foundation now, and the fear was that when the very last sinew was torn, so would be the state of her mind. The genuine, birthname of this girl, Caramella; it now conveyed the vicissitude of innocence, womanliness, and passion. The fact that her master gave them new names was the greatest act of mercy he could possibly bestow them; for they were enabled to use the old life as fertilizer for the new, without ever once having any memento to stir the ghosts lingering at this criminal act of violating human rights.

After placing a hard grip over his girth that he had taught her, she twirled her tongue around his cock, still too hesitant to look him in the eye, however, as she was taught he preferred. She massaged his balls as she worked him, and his palm increasingly hardened down with force upon her head. He continually pushed her down over him more until she heard a low, drawn out, but soft drag of his breath.

"Ahh…that's it, come closer to Papà and get warm."

So she did, and as he huddled her a bit between his legs, she relished in the heat of his sculpted thigh against her arm. But more than this, she favored the great heat at his crotch, suffusing around her at her most vital spot to maintain the warmth. She lifted her torso more as she sucked him off, wanting to not waste any bit of the sacred heat, and to that end, teasing him out slowly so to prolong the moment.

She pleased him well this day, not caring in the slightest to suck up, along with his cum, the bit of smegma he had collected under his foreskin. He watched her clean him thoroughly, drink his fluids like wine and immediately translated it in his mind as an act of worship. He laid his shriveled dick upon her face, enjoyed beholding that doing this had little matter to his slave, as she concerned herself more with maintaining her own heat provided by his. In fact, she simply laid her own face into his crotch, still holding onto his thighs.

"Come here," he breathed, and without much of her own recognition, he pulled her from below the elbow, urging her to come up.

She of course, followed suit, especially with the additional application of force to the roots of her hair shafts as well. He dragged her into his lips, letting her feel a withheld passion he had maintained during her literal lip service to him.

Just as he kissed her then, so he did now. It was in the midst of their intimacy during the Saturnalia that Caramella's mind had dozed off to these memories, and that one specific memory of the many she shared with him now from those dreaded days. Again, she visited the thought, the one she had wondered before—if being upstairs now, free, was any better than what was experienced then.

Something slipped in her mind between then and now, between what was experienced and what was yet to come. Her intoxication may well have left her prone to delusion, but her heart told her it was real. It was a bratty thing to say, that this treatment now, as his pet over his destitute slave with hardly a pot to piss in—was somehow equal in rank. If there was any time to prove this to her, it was there, in and of itself within the entire core principle of Saturnalia.

Freedom, as in going back to what her life once was, was too big of a wish to be granted. It would be like an impoverished child in an underdeveloped country to ever hope for adoption into an established, western civilization. What could be taken was this—what was the value in freedom really? What was her life before anyway, except for stress, uncertainty, constant conflict and hopeless prospects? Why was this not a blessing, or the best she could get? Her life was now decided for her, she was taken care of—safe from the cold world, safe from what was worse than this without any doubts—the dungeon. The relative freedom could not be denied.

Having nothing, or suffering, left a person hardened. It left one ready to leap and appreciate what _was_ given to them. And what was given to her now, in this very moment, was the warmth of a bed and what lay beneath her, satin sheets thoroughly entangled with her master's knees. She tasted the tang of the alcohol on his tongue this time that he kissed her, welcomed the high bridge of his nose pressing into her own. She felt his hand pin both of her wrists, but the rough skin of his own against her soft flesh felt more welcoming than ever before. It all only made her press into him harder, lean her small breast into his diaphragm.

She could hear noises coming from Secco somewhere distant, likely his continued celebration of being the king of the event, but nothing could preclude their impending love making. She melted under him, so when she felt his other hand prising her thigh to open, it fell below him like a poorly garrisoned fort. All sensation melded into one, and Caramella fancied she was above rather than below, yet here she was, all the same, completely rooted under this man that was meant to be her maker rather than lover.

She felt an unlikely moan escape her lips and into his own; it felt so good to feel him please her, a feeling so foreign—something she never imagined could feel so satisfying. Her mind trailed off with images of the last moment of intimacy they had spent at the beginning of this event, where it was all four of them, and he had orally pleased her, made her cum even. Her eyes opened slightly, and she shivered with the memory and the knowledge that it could very well end again just as it did before.

The old, familiar feeling of his organ prodding at her entrance revisited her, and she clung to him as she felt him enter. All this time she avoided his gaze, one she knew well was probably locked on her. But when he entered her fully to the hilt, she was finally left to come face to face with him as he tilted her chin up.

"_Master…_" the lust was hardly hidden in her voice now, and Cioccolata knew this. He knew it better now, having felt her fluid permeate around him, invite him in deeper.

He shushed her gently, letting his lips trail along her ear, before adding, "Not now, you needn't call me that now, _tesora." _His Italian made a pause along the second syllable of her pet name, continuing in a low lull, "Call me simply…Cioccolata."

On this cue, he unpinned her wrists, as if even acknowledging himself that he had no right of this usual, preferred containment. But her arms still lingered above her for a bit, until his thrusts into her became deeper and more determined, as though he were attempting to fish something more out of her soul than what he had already previously harvested these past couple months.

It was like this that she found her hands trailing over his bare chest, feeling past the curves of his sculpted figure, and soon following, moaned a gentle, "Cioccolata," into the shared lusty atmosphere of his bedroom. How she had ended up here, she did not recall. One moment they were engaged in their usual games for the events, at the time a variation of "twister," and the next she was being carried away in his arms. All she did know was that it must have been decided abruptly, on a whim. Given the drunkenness shared by all, there might have been some accidents, and perhaps an accident could be attributed to this turn of events.

"That's it…_" _he drawled in his own drunken stupor. As much as just a little bit of alcohol could affect the inexperienced young girl, she witnessed Cioccolata's energetic habits during these festivities, and couldn't understand how he could even hold himself up nor have carried her.

He seemed so perfectly capable, despite how truly wasted he was, that it hit her with a note of unexpected sadness to think that this attention he gave her was anything less than genuine. But with her breast being enveloped now in his hands, and her tightening legs around his hips, she couldn't spare it anymore room in her mind than anymore she could spare in her pussy. She needed him to fill her utterly until the building conflict in her uterus was convalesced.

Suddenly his pace changed, as this was common for him of course, but in no way was it foreseeable to Caramella, who, up until this point as of late, had only experienced brutal and nonconsensual thrashing from him. He had steadied himself on his knees firmly, pulled her back into him, while also tugging down at the roots of her hair at the back of her scalp. Her face inclined, exposing her neck to him then, and he suckled it, leaving love marks upon porcelain white skin.

Caramella was rocked into pealing moans as her body bounced off Cioccolata every time he pushed into her. She couldn't comprehend how it could feel so good; it juxtaposed her overwhelming prior abuse by his hand. There was no consolation in what she was feeling, not even that tender look in his eye, nor the tilting of his pelvis executed to please her clit—but everything in her inexperienced heart manipulated her into the notion of him _caring_ for her. Denying such, as it stood in this ingress of passion, was like debating an established truism—nothing could be gained by it.

Before she knew it, her arms were wrapped around him, as she strived to pull herself deeper into this foreign whirlpool of tenderness—not something she had known long in her life, and certainly not from him. But the reward in it all was so grand, something worth competing for; the elixir of life. She heard herself crying out as she released under him, yet it sounded far away and more of a dream than of reality. Heavy intoxication was known for producing this notion, even without the contrasting psychological dilemma she was posed with, as a possession of a depraved mafioso. Even still, her grip lingered into his shoulder blades, afraid for what one might call the cessation of their short-lived love making. Her orgasm held on for about as best it could—fifteen seconds—and it was enough time for him to fill her himself within the interim.

She knew he had roughened, smacking into her softened cervix, yet she didn't flinch anymore. She knew there was a pain around her waist, the feeling of his palms and thumbs girdling her, yet she only arched her back in more. There was no resistance emanating from her as he made a mess out of the cave between her legs. Instead, she only welcomed the warm fluid that filled her deep, as her grip on him and the sheets slowly became less fixed.

She drifted away in the direction of her departing bliss, not without mouthing the name of Cioccolata twice. And he didn't need to hear her enunciation, for he read the four syllables just fine on those small, arousal induced, red lips.

.

_25__,__ November 1999_

Only a woman ever thinks that sex ever keeps a man, and despite all the universal reason circulated among the softer sex, they operate by this faith in man's heart, spurred on by the native passion that rests in all. It can be applied literally; it can be metaphoric. What it can't be however, is a truth, for that would imply that the notion is far more than a hypothesis, has been tested and proven over varying circumstances again and again. Even at best, it could not be described as a correlation. As all matters of the heart, when it comes to women, there was nothing but feeling and intuition, and in a world where Nature decides that man be the ruling force, these were not facts but phenomena whose only value was to add color to such facts. It was therefore complimentary, just as woman's purpose was to man.

While this could all be applied to a broader worldview, the reality was that there was no wider world outside the walls, forests, fences, and all other boundaries of the estate. The world was only what Cioccolata deemed it to be in his slave's minds, and, for a sex he deemed as weaker than himself, he would not speak on the outside world with them as much as he could help it. In fact, if he ever felt the urge to confide, he found that comfort in doing so with his subordinate, Secco. Even though he served him, his status, being that of a man, was still higher than the female slaves.

The slave who already appeared to have the highest favor, Caramella, was not unlike most women in the regard that she fancied delusion in the face of hard facts. It was something that she of course, could not help in herself, given the added vulnerability of her present circumstances and mental state. No matter how much wiser she might have been, there was this biological fact that she would always be faced with, and, removed from the ingenuine constructions of society, her womanly instincts became ever more clear.

So to speak, she returned to the Holy Mother within, that feminine spirit which is said to be present in all on account of the blood passed from mother to daughter, so on and so forth until all share the source entity. It has been said that women who unlocked this potential, were the very poor maidens who became ostracized in any given society; and the full weight of the theocratic system fell upon their bosoms. Threatening indeed, for this sacred knowledge in women has been the driving force behind man's fervor and passion, as well as their violent efforts of defense for their kingdoms and progeny.

True hell for women came not when men relinquished these efforts for self-preservation, but in fact, when men stepped down, and allowed subversive forces to bend and manipulate the tribes into modes of life and ideology which placed itself worlds apart from the command of Nature. The awakened woman was the embodiment of Nature, and she is most pleased when men serve to protect her; in exchange, she grants man life and the privilege to carry on a biological legacy. And yet, not one thing present today is symbolic of this old order. Thus any man, and better yet, woman, who takes a hostile stance against Nature is one who is doomed to lose.

In no way is it clear, nor is it being hinted, that Cioccolata felt to be one in league with Nature's will. Even the doctrines of what is or isn't natural is a point of conjecture in this subversive age. The best that could be done would be splitting hairs, but even to ask the man himself would induce a torrent of justifications that would lead all back to square one. The habit of mankind was to bend truth to whatever fits their narrative, and in a world where "good" was pronounced "evil", and "evil" was beheld as "good" by the masses, the truth came with no easy pickings.

Even still, this did not mean that Cioccolata's viewpoints were _wrong _per se, but that his interpretation, which was obviously of a negative sort, casted a dark, somber, and twisted hue over the patterns he witnessed of the world which were indeed, facts. Psychological pathology in no way helped the matter, and we are left with someone who has become lost, or "of" the world which, no one can deny, is closest to horror and atrocity, than of peace and joy. In some sense, this made Cioccolata the physical embodiment of Nature at its worst.

If anyone should like to experience the greatest nightmare, as well as the paradoxical greatest dreams, they should like to be born on planet Earth. One would argue that it is the cruelty of life that makes it so beautiful, all for those glimmers of beauty and humanity in between; and that same argument can be twisted around. In just this paragraph can be described the budding awakening of the girl Caramella. Where her master placed more emphasis and validation of the cruelty of life, she found herself placed in the beauty and hope. Even this observation, was an undeniable consequence of her sex—again she falls for intuition, feeling, delusion, over what is to be dubbed empirical—the facts.

Again, even this may be dragged out further, however. Was the solution to the question a choice on landing upon one end or the other, or was it a meeting somewhere in between? Was it possible to observe both pain and happiness, and not come to a conclusion about the world in the flavor of either two, while at the same time, without offering a talking point symbolic by nihilism? Better yet, one might want to beg the question as to why we often interpret the pain, and yet jump at the very hope of joy. When we decide that there is still happiness to be found, for whatever reason, this observation often drives us to conclude that life is indeed a positive and worthwhile experience. Why do we shudder at the thought that the opposite may be just as true? Perhaps it's natural after all—it may be instinct; and evolutionary biology has something to say in way of explanation.

This was exactly symbolic of the situation these girls, and all future girls, would find themselves placed in. The sudden leap toward kindness, whenever perceived. The longing to ascribe any slight show of care on the part of their master to that of "love" or "respect" for themselves as people. It is this thought which explains why Caramella would fall into the same mentality. After the passion they shared on Saturnalia, it made sense why she would. After being so intimate in a way that felt more to bear each other's soul, so she thought, that she would somehow "have" him.

It was not the case so much in the sense she was subconsciously hoping for. However, could the fact that it was true in another sense, not be interpreted as a victory?

One thing that hasn't been mentioned thus far, and should now be detailed, is the physical examination Cioccolata conducted on both women after introducing them to their new living quarters. In the antechamber of the estate, was a connecting room which was made up into a sort of small office. True to the image that an office would conjure, there were a few filing cabinets, and a long desk which ran from the entrance to the bit of feet that stretched to the opposite end. Two rolling chairs were placed there, some foot or more apart. All this aside, there was one thing that stood out somewhat in this office of otherwise professional trappings—a large stool placed between the chairs, but against the wall. And no, it was obviously not the same, nor did it resemble, the small foot stool that met a hard fate several months before.

This physical examination, so Caramella found out, turned into a psychological one as well. It might as well have been called a general exam, but even that wouldn't be so true to the idea. Having known this man intimately, it was far too personal now to be called strictly business.

She found herself placed in the chair in the deepest aspect of the room, with Cioccolata seated at the one closest to the door leading out, to be expected. He wrote on a paper before him, but the girl spent no time watching him, however. As much as she did wonder what he was doing, at this point, she almost felt as though she had needed his permission to stare at him; fear kept her from doing so. She instead focused her eyes upon the wood paneled walls, although there was nothing much in the spirit of adornment she could behold and even feign preoccupation.

Like a young bird making a premature departure from the nest, the girl was petrified; her eyes were hardly adjusted to anything other than 3 stone walls and one row of iron bars, the still ether gray and black which imbued filtered light with a tinge of hopefulness. Suddenly, to pass through luxury of the very opposite caliber that was her master's dungeon was a startling profundity into her captor's character, one she could not have foreseen. Stepping, close behind him in what seemed to be a palace fit for a king, or at least a retainer, made the girl woozy, as each hurried step left her feeling that she was inching herself closer to the terminus of reality.

It therefore was a relief for the, at this time, unnamed girl, that she should use the interval of silence to replay the images of extreme opulence in her mind; for the luminosity of this alone was enough to strike all the color and sensation in her blackened mind much that it does when shrouded in a pitch black cave. Each light on the spectrum was like a bone being thrown her way, one which her mind was too eager to catch; it grasped the images too tightly in its hold, that the grappled phantoms of the image slipped away and back into the dark chambers, leaving her to scramble in their memory.

All this was to say that dear Caramella was zoned out, and this served her captor well, as he wasn't one that enjoyed being interrupted. He was, however, the type to interrupt another since it doesn't interfere with him in any way, and thus he brought the girl out of her thoughts by interjecting with his own.

"There wasn't much at all that I needed to add to your chart. You see, you probably won't remember by now," a hinted smile now flitted over his lips, "but I've already taken your measurements _long ago." _

That is, even before he introduced her to the dungeon. Cioccolata found himself unable to resist at least a noninvasive examination. She was, after all, his first girl on his otherwise new, untaken project. Not only that, but her small and petite frame left him internally salivating with the infinite desire to crush her beneath him. Just one look at this little anthropometric chart he had compiled on her had him reliving the moments they had shared in his training, and the yearning he felt for more, new experiences to be had with her. The excitement, the thrill, the karmic pull. Yes, this all left him all too curious for what the future may hold.

Although, some of the thrill in it all was witnessing the intensifying handle his pet seemed to have on _him, _rather than the usual, other way around.

Caramella finally looked into her captor's eyes, and the dazed, groggy air she maintained gave her the bravery, in effect, to absorb him wholly. Not one thing was lost by his acute perception, and he was already pleased with her demeanor and where this was going. He realized that one thing he could update however, was her weight. And thus, this was the first thing he took before anything else was conducted.

After looking over his measly documentation, he commented with a brief sigh, "These past few months have taken my mind off things. It's been a relief for me, truly. But _now…_what of it…?" He drummed his fingers upon the desk, looking as though he were absently giving voice to his thoughts.

She didn't know what he was talking about, and given the beauty of his home, she could find no reason for why he would need to take his mind off anything. What could possibly be so distressful for him, in _his _life? But the better question was, what right had _he_ to speak of the past months events in such a way, only concerning him?

To this, Caramella had nothing to say. She simply stared blankly, observing the specs of dust in the shaft of light which fell betwixt them suddenly, and fading in and out like a dying pulse.

It should come as no surprise that despite Cioccolata ever and always being the lady's man, he never actually had what could be called a single, loving relationship. Everything that could be noted of his relationships were casual, sexual, short-lived. If they ever even gave a hint of growing serious, he would head for the hills. However, more often than the former was ever the case, he nipped them in the bud and threw himself back into his work. And yet, ironically, it was in the midst of the fruition of his work that he had come closest to what could have been a successful relationship for any other man.

And that experience itself seemed to be the looming shadow over the point where he had lost all. It was but a single instance, but it left him bitter. Given that it happened only once, it wasn't quite possible to assess the circumstance as if it were a pattern; he hadn't a way of knowing if it could happen again.

As shocking as it may be, even a highly intelligent madman like himself did not possess all the answers. Like a loner of a man who resigned to his uneventful fate, he settled on "man's best friend." A dog, in other words, Secco. Not really, but he is, again, a madman, and this was the closest to his definition of his companion. In doing so, he at the very least, collected all the health benefits that one normally saw in the owning of a dog; let alone the added intelligence factor of such a being serving as his accomplice. This was safe for Cioccolata, he had concluded. Just this…

He continued now, taking note of a sudden awareness of his drifting thoughts, "When an aspect of our lives is absent, we begin to feel a void. I've felt this now, for over a year of my new life." When he said this, there was a reflection of his features that almost seemed to bear emotion, and yet, the display looked too orchestrated, and in this fact, lacked depth.

The young girl observed his features as his low tone seemed to vibrate the air between them, lulling her into a heightened awareness. Her eyes trailed over his limbs, his crossed legs, but ultimately, they never strayed long, too fixed on what he would say next.

"I understand that it's a hard transition for you but trust me, it's the only way it's going to work out for both parties. And nonetheless, I'm still taking care of you. You may have your own feelings regarding it; perhaps _you're _feeling a void now." His palm now rested over his crossed thigh, and he seemed to curve his body slightly closer toward her, saying gently, "_But _you'll adapt like all humans do." He smiled now, as if this were all the greatest assurance he could give her in the world.

Her eyes drooped to the floor, an implication of just how truly desperate his "reinforcement" was taken by her.

Cioccolata droned on, his tone changing to one of the daily custom of sarcasm, "It's certainly a learning experience for us all! This is my first time, for one." His eyes rolled seductively, and she felt the same, familiar heat rise in her once those green irises settled on her squarely. They shot into her like razors, and as such, prompted her into taking a defensive body language. She crossed her arms, holding each tightly in her palms.

"I see that I'm unsettling you…we'll diverge from this topic for now." He thought to accomplish this by redirecting the focus to Nocciola. "What should I do with your friend? I'm assuming she's your friend by now, anyway." He paused, gauging that her shoulders did indeed expel tension at the mention of the other woman. He enjoyed the display, it proved to him just as it did for him countless times in his experiments, just how primal and self-preserved all people are. "I'm not too fond of her. Regardless, I'll be taking her up today as well when we're finished here," His last line came out with some exasperation, as if it were a task he was not feeling up to.

Some silence ensued, and just when Caramella's breathing recommenced with some normalcy, Cioccolata destroyed all hope of the returning composure once he spoke again, "Secco doesn't want me to put her down…I wonder if I should just hand her off to him as his playmate. That'll be a joy to watch, and he certainly can benefit from a regular lay."

Her stomach flipped, and she felt the heat rise leave all over; without a doubt, she had also gone pallor. Her light eyes darted from one aspect to another in the brightly lit room. The urge came on so suddenly—to wish she could be back into the familiar blackness of the dungeon, where, at the very least, shadows hid her dismay. And God only knows how horrid she looked by now; she hadn't seen her reflection in over 3 months.

Soon she was distracted by Cioccolata rolling closer to her in his chair, and with that, the dread crept over her. She only quickly assessed his expression, only in a blink of her heavy lashed eyelids did she have enough time to note a boy-like, sinister expression. A memory or two flitted through her mind in that instance, reminding her of a schoolboy stalking the weak, innocent girl he was ready to pick on. It couldn't be argued that this scenario was any different.

By the time he had overtaken her, she had resigned her neck at an angle, so that her face only could stare down, as if she could do little more than wait for the blade to fall. All she could hear initially was his quiet breathing, a slight change, a heavier exhale, and next, his fingers graving over her neck. He tugged the golden hair behind her ear, then let his touch descend her long trunk only until he had reached her collar.

The gesture seemed romantic enough, and his words added to it, "I've wondered if I should allow myself to succumb to what I feel. Maybe I should just settle with my two catches, take _you _as my mate, and the other Secco's."

At each harder put enunciation, she felt his breath hit the nape of her neck, and even this gesture brought her back memories in the dungeon, with him as close as this, if not closer, inside, and…

But the dark memories couldn't last long when eclipsed by the light of his statement. Some foolish version of herself within her leaped at the proposition, the idea that her captor would not do what was done to her and her companion to any other women, and, better yet, that he may treat her with the amount of decency and humanity befitting one you would call a mate.

It wasn't exactly the first thing on her list that she would have wished for, but she knew very well by now, that liberation would never be an option. With that in mind, one could only scramble for the next best things—treatment.

And to only heighten her hope, as well as her embarrassment, Cioccolata's low, sensual voice rang out again, so close to her, he said, "It turned me on like nothing else to see you, countless times, so weak beneath me to the point that it was all you could do but to keep your legs open. I could see the anguish on your face, how much work it was for you to even so much as tense around me. And peculiarly, I noticed that you only spread them wider in response." He paused, and rightfully, for it was a lot for the now flushed red adolescent to absorb.

Now he resumed his descent with the back of his index finger, running along between her breast, and noting that here too, her pale skin was flushed and effectively heated. "Your submission to me has not gone unnoticed. I only want you, _tesora._"

The words hit the final note in her delicate, softened mind. It didn't take long to rationalize everything, his treatment of her thus far, his clear preference for her based on the fact that he often trained her himself in the dungeon. As much as the wiser half of her would have thought this all a lie, for whatever reason, she was taken away with this one.

What scared her was that she couldn't understand why. What was making her so hinged on seeking his approval, and what was leaving her almost salivating at the thought of being only his favorite?

Her eyes finally released their absorption with the polished wood floor, as if his words suddenly gave them the liberty to move within their orbits. She looked up at him, at his equally light, lipochrome pigmentation and saw there, at least she thought, a genuine passion. Though every marker inside of her at any given time may have warned her it was a lie, she looked past it, to the clear hope in the horizon with her one-way eyes.

He correctly analyzed the state of her mind, knew very well the look of trust in another, and was then, ready to pounce at the opportunity; the mere thrill of the chase, so they say, left him digging in his heels, with only a little bit more…

He hardly contained himself, that old familiar tingle took ahold of him—beginning in his lips, hands, chest, junk, thighs, feet, and lastly, his mind. Albeit, it wasn't nearly as a convulsive as some others he had felt, but even simple manipulation on those so gullible had an unending appeal. He entertained it whenever possible, at every opportunity and whatever the cost; all with the same tenacity that he displayed to get his dick in a bitch.

The only tell-tale sign of his cunning was the slight, but still noticeable mannerism of his. It escaped few, in that beholding it was quite a difference in expression than his given marble-like composure. That is, few emotions could be read by him, and in fact, none at all. And few things in the world could hardly bring him to a genuine smile, as sad as a statement that may be. What his lips displayed now was a parting, a slight revelation of glistening enamel, a gentle exhale, and the slick grazing of his tongue over the most inferior portion of those visible extensions of his skull.

Having the effect of nothing else but the awareness of time, interval, the inhale, exhale, and the passing of one cardiac cycle in between, Caramella knew herself to be privy to all. His proximity to her only grew, and with it, the heat. She only became slightly aware of his other outstretched arm and elbow resting upon the desk; if it meant breaking herself from his hypnotizing glare, the spell it cast, those very lips that, in themselves, formed their own chains to hers, then no other detail was worth noting. And then, with the sharpness of his nose eclipsing her own, far inferior to his in comparison, left her with the somewhat painful feeling of her heart strings being stretched a bit too far.

At the wrong moment for her, while at the right for him, Cioccolata exclaimed, "Gotcha!" But if this wasn't bad enough, he had also slammed the palm of his hand down into the desk, the one belonging to the same arm she had only briefly recognized had strayed from her beforehand.

The thud that reverberated from the wooden desk was nothing compared to the dub that she felt, almost heard within her own mediastinum without the aid of auscultation. This fact was conveyed in the rush of pressure she felt in her temples not long after the fact. Distress was not a quality for which she could subdue as often as she had previously tried, not in the wake of such unexpected environmental conditions.

It was again, a pleasure for the maniac in front of her to observe, and he burst into a sickening snicker, leaving the victim's emotional pain as a worthwhile expense. It was this that was always and ever again the conclusion one could gather from the cruel twinkle in his eyes; nothing in the world was too serious to him—not when there was so many little things, seemingly unnecessary ways to bring about his short lived happiness. If he was the one who didn't have to pay the toll, then the price was always worth it, no matter how high.

And even in this clear manipulation of her, obvious bullying of her own sensibilities, did he keep the ball rolling in his direction; like a child, the game never ended. He lifted his palm, revealing the smashed wings and carcass of an unfortunate type of gnat. A single brow of his raised at her, the shadow of his smirk still evident in the dimple of his cheek, and he spoke then in defense, "No, I wasn't talking to _you_, dearest."

He motioned his palm once more as if this was all the proof he needed for his innocence, but one thing that was clear to the girl was that he was talking to them _both—_as unsettling as it was to be compared to an insect. This doubt revealed itself in her eyes, in the slight grimace that escaped her brows, and the man laughed yet again when he recognized her scowl as he wiped the gnat guts from his palm with a tissue.

Somehow, Cioccolata knew how to both set a mood, and ruin it.

"My, what quick reflexes you have. And the look on your face! What a darling," he added, before joyously swiveling back toward his portion of the desk and, taking hold of the pen once more, noting something—likely what he had just observed. Absently, he then added, chuckling, "But nerves of steel? _That_ you would be lacking in."

When he had finished, which was, with the quick pace of a penmanship belonging to a man who was accustomed to paperwork, he resumed his conversation.

"I see that you're skeptical, but I truly didn't mean to startle you. I happen to get quite an itch that must be relieved whenever I spot one of those things. I've swatted enough of them from childhood on to this day to rack up an entire serving of daily protein, maybe more." He inched himself closer to her once more, though at a much more conservative distance than before, continuing, "But I don't need it." He paused then, only to smile mischievously, and straighten himself while at it, "I get plenty of that, as you must have already noticed."

The point was clear, and her eyes couldn't help but linger over the definition of his arms—those biceps brachii whose substantial bulk and flex couldn't even compare to the weight of the man's ego for who they belonged. _That_, given the weight he had in muscle mass, therefore, was truly worth a sigh. And to make matters worse, Cioccolata flashed a knowing smile with the slight angle his neck held his face in, which only washed over her the memories of the sight of his bare chest above her, and at the branding press, with a flush just as crimson as the cross indentation of the brand itself.

Cioccolata wanted to comment on it, but he would spare the girl his teasing as an act of mercy for his evident favorite. At least _that _wouldn't be the object of his jabs. He gratified himself instead with a slow, dragged out exhale, inhaled anew, then concluded, "You are what you eat."

Speaking on this new topic, he opted to steer the conversation into a new direction yet again; he was clearly ever the antsy one today, understandably. A big day was ahead of him, and more big days to come.

"On that token, you certainly are a nothing. Secco hasn't been feeding you too well during your training." He shook his head just then, as if Secco follows his own whims and does not do only what Cioccolata orders him, thus, distancing himself from the responsibility.

It was true that both slaves were not fed properly, raw slabs of fresh meat made for them plenty a meal. And so, Cioccolata was tickled by the temptation to let this girl in on the method to his madness. In ignorance, one might think this was just another antic of cruelty for him, but much like his homicidal tendencies, there was a clear logic and reason to why he did what he did, and it was separate from his base desire of pleasure.

Some might call it an excuse. He called it reasons to justify his actions. The sole reason for keeping his slaves, and future slaves, malnourished during their training, was to decrease the likelihood of impregnation. Surely, and especially in the case of an adolescent, the body had better things to do than be bothered with his strings of sperm. As sickening as it was that his mind resorted to starving the women as a sound contraceptive method—over the ethically established methods at that—no one could argue that this was shocking coming from him.

The thrill, he reasoned further, could be found in that slight possibility of conception. He was ever fascinated by it, and excited to see if any of his slaves at all, present or future, would conceive and carry full term his demon seed during his dungeon games. If it happened, then what a fit woman she would be! This was another experiment in itself, as it turned out.

He couldn't help it when his black lips, therefore, curled anew into an animated smile. He had a feeling that the thought had never crossed the young girl's mind, even still, he resisted the urge to convey this fact. It wasn't the time, nor the place…there'd be another opportunity. Besides, he needed to save some awful surprises up his cross tacked sleeves.

Caramella knew not what her captor's ominous smile was about, but she also didn't bother much to attempt to figure them out. He often did this, gushing to himself as if he were trapped in the fixations of his own internal world. Given the circumstances, and all that she had been made aware of regarding his character, it was perfectly logical to appreciate that this was a man who had no choice but to indulge a hidden, private world from the eyes of humanity. And as the latter was surely one for which stirred the foundation and provided for the source of his hatred, his mind was his own cushion; his thoughts, his only solace.

Yet it wasn't long before his attention was finally goaded back into the present, in the physical realm. His eyes, at first appearing to be staring right at her, were really fixated above and around the top of her head. Unfortunately, there was no esoteric explanation to be given for this occurrence, and the explanation as such was not profound. Simply put, there hovering above the girl's head was either the cousin or the mate of the fellow who had met the pressing of Cioccolata's palm.

Suddenly, and understandably, the girl grew hot with the intensity of his glare, though she did not share the knowledge of why he was staring so. When the wheels of his chair suddenly lunged close to her, she braced herself the only way she could, squeezing her eyes shut, balling her fists, and pulling them to her chest. She felt the swish of cool air over her scalp, his arms above her head, another loud slap, but no touch of his hand upon her being save for, perhaps one tendril of her golden hair.

"I apologize, _tesora. _It was just another nuisance." He affirmed her sweetly.

The relief was heavy, following the fear that was slowly leaving her chest. Already she felt exhausted with this meeting, the heart pain and jump-scares he was putting her through was enough for one day, especially after all she had already put up with for the past couple months.

He scanned over her face and aspect yet again, this time, almost as close to her as he previously was before. There was a mocking smile on his face, and again, he seemed satisfied with her reaction.

"You didn't really think _I _was going to lay a hand on you, did you? _Never." _It was another affirmation for her, presumably, yet it did not seem as genuine as the first and was even an outright lie considering past evidence.

Luckily, the subject was changed yet again, but this time, he did not back away toward his portion of the desk, nor inch any closer. "Hm," he pondered for a second, before adding, "Maybe they're attracted to you; you haven't exactly had a proper bath."

And it was true, she hadn't. The best she and the other woman got was a bucket of soapy water, at times thrown upon them, and made to clean themselves as if they were livestock. Good behavior seemed to elicit time in a small, portable, wooden tub. Bad behavior however, which only happened with Nocciola, was rewarded with a splash of cold water, Secco's animalistic fucking on her while Cioccolata watched, recording and beating his meat with some added commentary. The thought of a proper bath was a luxury at this point, one she now understood many took for granted.

Cioccolata didn't leave her to dwell on these memories for too long however, he spoke again, this time catching her attention more with some food for thought.

"I do find it odd. There was a problem with them for many years here owing to the fact that the original owner of this estate was a wine distributer, among other things…" He trailed off, expertly leaving out the detail of the man's relation to him.

Caramella was almost entirely mute for the whole discourse, as per usual. Apprehension left her with not much to add, as well as that she knew better than to speak unless she was directly questioned. Comments were to be kept at a minimum. But now, she was questioned by her master.

"You've not seen the casks down there? That little dungeon I've created for you was once a wine cellar, you know."

Caramella was taken aback, swung back into reveries which she'd rather now leave dead and buried. There _were_ quite a few barrels of sorts down there, along with a couple in her own cell, but there _was _definitely a noteworthy cask within Nocciola's cell across from her. It stood out only from the old, bold, pantone typeface spaced vertically along the base, reading, "Ferrante."

"I have," She spoke, and the tension of her nod matched the meekness in the tone of her feeble voice. Hardly making eye contact, she granted him only quick, frosty blue glances to his face, finding the engagement of conversation with him more challenging than the atrocities she was made to endure.

And the man let it drop, so it seemed. She was met with silence, and no other indication for further disclosure until a sudden interrogation ensued. Cioccolata reeled himself in, slowly and with the deliverance which implied only a serious change of events. Her intuition spiked, and she felt the change in the atmosphere that could do nothing to belie the gravity of his aspect, the way, once his knees practically interlaced her own, his palms dropped to his lap and folded with a determined intention.

The trepidation grew more severe when he ordered her to look at him. Already, this had to have been worse than the last time he was so close to her in this small, mock office.

"Tell me now, have you noticed anything else down there…?" He put forward the question with a gentle but knowing tone, and it flung her thoughts into a hopelessly tipping cognitive helicoid.

She spent some time, some mere seconds thinking, but given the sudden question and the severity in his bearings, she opened her mouth prematurely. Before she could utter a sound, he paused her, this time gentler, with, "Just think about it."

After about a half minute of silence, Caramella's recall sped up, and she remembered events not pertaining to her training or Cioccolata's nightly visits. Just like that, her mind was clear, and it quickly passed over all the days and nights she and Nocciola bonded, speaking to one another from one cell to the other. This wasn't the significant detail in it all, however. What was significant now, was the recollection of the most recent occurrence down there, one that particularly stood out.

In truth, Cioccolata was not expecting to be revealed anything to confirm his suspicions of what had, in this point of time, had only happened, or at least he had noticed, 2 days ago. And so, when Caramella revealed to him now that only _very _recently, she _did_ notice some activity not belonging to him or Secco in the dungeon, he knew his paranoia, and its subsequent results, were not exaggerated.

It took some time sorting through the details, though not too long. It seemed that Caramella assumed, peculiar as it was, to have been Secco and him, but she dared not raise her voice or show any sign of concern. The utter darkness of the dungeon, whose contents were only revealed through Cioccolata, cloaked these strangers within the pit of his estate. Indeed, Cioccolata was God around these parts, it was only him who declared, "Let there be light!"

…Only in this situation, did that circumstance come back to bite him. If there were at least a nightlight, perhaps she could have made out the faces of the men. He could assume, given his position, that he could easily find out who the men are given a physical description, but even then, there really was no guarantee.

The other possibility to consider was whether Caramella was hallucinating a sound, a presence. Although this was his first experiment of the nature with these women, he understood this phenomenon to be especially common in those faced with starvation, and the degree of emotional and physical stress/trauma he had placed on them. At any other point in time, he would have attributed this revelation as just that, with not even a modicum of belief.

What changed things now was the matching of the timelines from the morning he had made the discovery in his kitchen. Understandably, the girl's sense of time was out of whack, if not altogether absent. Complete darkness for most days had this effect. Even still, at just guessing, which Cioccolata made every effort to patiently pry from her, Caramella indicated that it must have only been a few days ago at most. Given that this situation had only struck him two days ago, a few days ago at most fit the timeline like a puzzle piece.

The most interesting piece of this story, as he understood it, was the fact that these men _saw _Caramella. Apparently they had a flashlight, and for that moment, her little world was illuminated—until the unlucky trajectory momentarily blinded her in the lenses. For Nocciola not to have noticed this, having always been the noisy one, could only be assumed that she was knocked out. This was no surprise, as her condition was at its worst during these final days there. If Cioccolata had waited any longer to take them up, she might have just died, and during these last few days, Caramella did wonder if that limp and motionless body in the adjacent cell was just that.

Her blinded state, having all to do with the severe lack of stimulation to her photoreceptors, gave all the time and more for these unwelcome guests to see for themselves all that they needed to, and thus slink away. Talk about being, "blinded by the light."

"Poor, beautiful things." He added, belying the agitation he felt inside, not so much for her condition but by the fact that there truly _was _a couple assholes who had made themselves too comfortable in his home—enough to rummage through the contents of his fridge.

His thumb gently grazed her right orbit, making known the object of his comment. It might have seemed, for someone else, a caring gesture, however, Caramella did not perceive it in such a way. There was something about the way he said it, that gave a sense that he imbued her visual organs with more concern than the organism for which they belonged—all with a sense that the organ systems were separate from the being. He never failed to come across in such a way; it was clinical.

After assuring her that it would not happen again, as well as reminding her of how much "freedom" she will have now that she's an "inspected and certified pet" to keep around the estate, he began to wrap things up with her. He informed her that they would meet again, in this room some days later, after she and Nocciola have had proper meals to build their stamina, to conduct some further "examinations," as well as fitness tests and a physical. She didn't want to think about the latter; she could only hope it was a professional one given how many "physicals" she already had with him at this point.

From then on and afterward, and toward her entrance into the section of the estate for which he had promised would be her and Nocciola's dwellings, Caramella's world was completely transfigured relative to the previous dreadful transformation. It was there, in these high ceilinged quarters, supplied with their own primary living arrangements; kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms—along with those for their pleasure and convenience—where the two women would share commiserations, and soon enough, the addition of more of their kindred who would join them in their song of sorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

_Keep your distance, walk away, don't take his bait  
Don't you stray, don't fade away, yeah  
Watch your step, he's out to get you, come what may  
Don't you stray from the narrow way, yeah ~Phantom of the Opera, Iron Maiden_

* * *

**Capitolo XI:**

-_Il primo sottaceto: prima fase_-

_Rome, Italy—4, January 2000_

Weeks had gone by easily, not only since Cioccolata had first learned that spies within Passione did indeed raid his home, but since his following month of self-quarantine. Many things were accomplished in this time period, foremost, the transition of his slaves to well trained, perfect pets within his estate. As much as the excitement for the past month and some occupied him to the point of satiety—he knew better than all that it would only be temporary.

And at this time of year no less, the ringing in of the new millennia, along with it, on this very day, his date of birth. These two details however, occupied far little space relative to the near anniversary of when he had first become an established physician. Those brief couple of years filled him with such excitement, and he could certainly now label it as a couple of the most well-deserved, best years of his life.

Morbid opportunities were seized upon with ease, this was certain and well known, unfortunately now, by all who knew of his real name. Yet, there lingered still regrets which were not all tied to his medical misconduct. He thought briefly on these things, as he now drove through the east side of Roma; on this day, bravely introducing himself back into the world of the living—only to accomplish the long-awaited grocery shopping necessities.

Bravery was the word used to describe this action of his, for it was unclear to him and his partner in crime whether there was a genuine hit called upon them. Cioccolata had figured it was nothing of the sort, and perhaps his character flaw of sheer arrogance and simply no alarms of fear would one day come back to bite him—but he was assured that even if they were planning one, he will have summoned Green Day before their pistols have a chance to leave their breast pockets.

The lovely detail regarding his absolutely overpowered stand, was that even the slightest difference in elevation, of him upon a greater height, would trigger the proliferation of the mold on his victims. There were many things they could call Cioccolata, but never a fool. Although he was taking a chance today to run an errand that could surely wait longer, he drove an extra distance to be sure he would be left in terrain that granted him the advantage of the higher ground—steep hills followed many of the roads. If he were to be hit with such an emergency, it would be no difficulty for him to secure a spot. And in fact, he was so assured that he would find victory in such a situation that he found no need to drag Secco along with him.

As Cioccolata drove his reliable and cherished Rolls Royce up such a mentioned, steep hill, he commented at the peak, in a low, but confident growl, "Hm, they can try me if they want to…"

Yes, if they _wanted _to. He was rather looking forward to a fight, Lord knows he really needed the excitement and newfound adrenaline. As mentioned, his enthusiasm with his girls was beginning to wear off, and he knew well that for him, variety was the spice of life. The time to collect more slaves was _now. _

The drop over the hill was hardly felt viscerally by Cioccolata; this man was a manic, and hardly anything moved him. It would certainly take a lot more than that to get his blood boiling.

Grinding his teeth, he tried not to think on any more potential scenarios to satisfy his bloodlust. He knew well that the Boss was up to something; he hadn't gotten a job from him since the now passed fall season, and it greatly saddened the man. He was _so _looking forward to giving someone a bloody Christmas, and certainly, the greatest gift he himself could ask for! Instead, Cioccolata was left as a gloom-stricken boy on Christmas morning, happening upon a bare tree.

Alas…he had no jobs the entire holiday season, though his stipend continued to roll in, and it filled him with sadness. No Christmas tapes to ring in the new year. What a pity…

But Cioccolata resolved this fact in mind, with terrifying implications. He reasoned that somebody in the future would pay for his present sadness, because all that mattered in his world was of course, his happiness and comfort. It goes without saying that he stamped more cruelty in his mind for what he would do to his Boss one day, but he also figured, surely, after this all came to pass, he would be given jobs yet again. And so, in his mind, he told himself, _"Perhaps next Christmas…"_

…To be precise, perhaps next Christmas, he would have a job to make up for his lack presently. Whoever the unlucky fellow(s) were, he reasoned, he would bestow upon them twice fold his typical amount of cruelty. This thought relaxed his being presently, he rested into the driver's seat with more ease.

Thoughts of future work aside, if there was a hit called out upon him, he was in enemy territory, without a doubt. Many of the Boss' men were stationed in and around Rome, though of course, Cioccolata was the most infamous. The benefit was that his reputation surely would strike fear in whoever was sent to do such work, and indeed, perhaps the Boss could find no one to do so. In this fact, Cioccolata was not at all arrogantly exaggerating—everyone feared him. But little did he know that notorious reputation of his would soon, only be unimaginably inflated—to the point that all within Passione would know his name.

At last, the man behind the wheel found a spot to sit himself. Pulling up by a curb streaming with life, he perched for a moment to think. Sure, it might have seemed strange, he technically had some perishables in the trunk but, the knowledge lagged behind and was soon amended by the knowledge that the cold of January would certainly be enough of a freezer for them, or at least a fridge. Sure, there might have been other factors to consider, such as the heat emanating from his vehicle…but that could be dropped from the equation _if _he left his car to occupy himself elsewhere.

As mentioned, this was the east side of Roma. He wasn't always around here, often just in passing. So he looked around through his windows, enjoying the sight for about a minute with his hand in his pocket. He looked at his bronze Rolex wristwatch, and realized the night was still young. Should he go somewhere to enjoy himself? Was this the moment he would look for another slave? He pondered it shortly, before deciding that he should find a place to…_relax, _and carry out his course of action, whatever would spur it in that moment. Oh, the thrill!

Looking around again, it was clear to see the streets were alive with nightlife, and that being his weakness since he was a teen, he decided he'd look for a club, but maybe nothing too rowdy. There should be something more laid back…

He straightened himself in his seat with renewed determination, but before reigniting the engine, checked his phone in his breast pocket to see if he had any voicemails from Secco. None. Good. He slipped the phone back in, and started the car once more, not without taking a sip of the water in his holder he had left. Soon after, he was taking off once more, into the black, early winter night—with no good thoughts and mischief clouding his perverted mind.

_._

_3, January 2000_

At least once in one's life, they experience the ebbs and flows of romance. Not infatuation, lust, but true and genuine feeling which lasts longer than a few months, to which we all, at that point, diagnose it as, "love." Although people often enjoy attributing a magical quality to the phenomena, it is in fact, like most things, firmly rooted in evolutionary biology. In other words, it simply works for the survival and propagation of a species—imagine the implications of _not _being struck by such strong feelings toward the opposite sex. How would we have survived this long? What if sex just didn't feel so amazing, and _especially _so with one whom we loved most? And, most telling of all, what would happen if a mother _lacked _the hormonally induced feelings of unconditional love toward her offspring—if she were not willing to sacrifice her own life so that her children could survive?

Not a single one of these things could be, if it weren't for the work of hormones and neurotransmitters, and everything in between that helps propagate the expression of these genes. And if none of these things could be, so too would be the condition of humans. Everyone would cease to be.

Many people, and more commonly in the modern era, fulfill their biological purpose, so to speak. What is less common in the modern era is the successful application of healthy pair bonding. That is, many people have children, but do not marry nor settle with those they have them with. This is not something altogether rooted in nature, but rather, has comes up more as a consequence of selfish consumerism, the disconnect from nature subsequent to the former, and the interplay of nurture factors. It is far easier for a man or woman to navigate the safety net of civilization and singlehandedly provide for offspring than what once was possible. For a woman especially to be left with child and without the mate would have a zero chance of survival, at least, in the far less forgiving climates of Northern Europe.

Since Cioccolata is only one man, and not a race (a sigh of relief for society), it would be moot to use the evolutionary biology of his branch of the European race to form a hypothesis on why he has, at now 33, failed at his golden chance of successful pair bonding 2 years ago. His opportunity was a sad thing to be wasted, but given the man's mental state, it comes as no surprise. It should also come as equally no surprise that he had fulfilled his biological purpose without the intent to pursue a union.

"The one that got away," or so they say. Even a psychopath with no real capacity to care for another experienced this feeling of loss, the singe of regret for what could have been. But the situation for him, particularly, was a complicated one. He had wanted just the right woman, especially tailored for him according to his own exacting preference, but also who would be the easiest for him to manipulate without also experiencing the strong compulsion to destroy.

The latter issue was the harder part, and why he was left single.

Only one woman he had pursued with more seriousness towards the aims in pair bonding. But she got away. The woman who he had imprinted his genetic material with, experienced the same feeling, except it was for him. This brings to mind another cliché; "you always want the one you cannot have," or at least, unions don't always break even, and sometimes, the extent of our feelings for another aren't always mutual, but unrequited.

After about a year of letting the past settle into its rightful place, Cioccolata found himself more and more able to absorb in totality, the extent of what he felt as he looked over the small accumulation of letters, sealed with violet wax hidden away in the drawer of his study desk. It was here he sat once more, after his daily readings, to finally look upon with more dedication than he had previously, the handwritten letters upon elegant, rose stationary.

The first letter, written not long after he had lost his job, and was going through the legal consequences, was one that he especially avoided. The holiday season that had passed, and into the present moment, reminded him of the events that had passed now, one year ago. The Saturnalia festivities he had conducted with Secco was a great distraction, but now, he felt the inclination to open, once more, the letter from his past that almost burned him to the touch.

The content of the first letter was not one Cioccolata focused on at the moment, and as such, would not be detailed. He instead focused on the signed photographs inside of the second, and of the two, one in particular. There was a photo, printed straight from the polaroid, of a baby girl. It was signed beneath in the stripping with her name, "Alida Eleonora Ferrante," along with her date of birth, "26, September 1999."

The photograph was taken not long after she was born, and thus, no distinguishable features of either parents had fully set in. Yet even considering this fact, and with as much knowledge of the formation of bones Cioccolata had, he still found himself trying to decipher even a hint of this instinctual intrigue.

To this letter, recording only the most crucial details—as Cioccolata deemed it—of the child's birth and all thereafter, he had still left with no reply. The sender may very well have felt, at about 3 months later, that she was being ghosted. However, the man responsible for the siring of this lifeform, decided after the course of his leisure, that he would soon put pen to paper—ending the surely arduous trial of the abandoned woman. But ending her labor in totality would mean the return of her partner in conception, and that was a hope which would never be fulfilled coming from the "man of despair."

The most he would provide, and already had, in this situation, was his own self-administered stipend to pay for her and the child's living expenses, child support. Unlike his Boss, Cioccolata was not too tight with his money, though not due to charity. He simply had too much of it to get to doing anything with it.

Penning his next letter was something on the horizon, but not something which would be done on this night, a mere several hours from his own birthday. Due to this fact, further details would not be expanded upon; Cioccolata rather felt he needed to take his mind away from all this.

Even if he were to reply now, the same strange feeling would overcome him, whenever he sat too long looking over the contents. As mentioned, the letter seemed to burn him to the touch, but this wasn't simply metaphoric. He truly felt it. Obviously, Cioccolata was a man of science; he wasn't about to start believing in some magical explanation for it. To even attribute it to a consequence of his intuition unsettled him, but it was all he could make of it. And leaving it to such device sprung up his paranoia, something he was best subduing. Was it possible this woman was burning _him_ in some way?

Like his vague plans of murdering his employer, uncovering the source of these feelings revolving around this letter, and the sender, booked themselves on his mental to-do list. He stored them in similar mental compartments, assuring himself that when the time was right, he'd act on both. It seemed the former, older plan was of more prominence in his mind, however.

He would come back to this matter, and even go as far as pay his child's mother an unexpected visit…only after he becomes the new Don of Passione.

.

Cioccolata drove slowly along the street, taking note of all signs, scanning along the cobblestones and elaborate business storefronts. His excitement had previously won out; he had gotten a bit intoxicated in a nearby tavern, but he soon grew bored of it—he did not peep any worthy whores to take a spot in his dungeon, (luckily for them). Still, his motor skills were not yet impaired; he held his own extraordinarily well in the face of it.

Then he saw it, he glimpsed a sign that he imagined had to be some type of club. He went over it too fast however, so he circled the street again until it hit it once more, coming up deliberately slower this time around.

"_Panini Alla Cannella._" It was plastered on a hot pink, lit up sign, framed with pale pink flashing bulbs. The color, along with all the hearts, already told him what he needed to know even before he saw the smaller writing directly under: "Gentlemen's club."

He pulled up to an open space on the curb, almost directly in front of it, then parked his white luxury vehicle. He looked at the sign again, then wrestled with a thought.

_Cinnamon rolls_. He pondered the name. He hoped that didn't mean they had nothing but washed up and coked out southern Italian whores in there. He shook his head. The liquor had him buzzed a little too much. He wasn't thinking right. Surely, it only meant the women were "sweet."

Well, so was he…

So, he decided he'd just have a look, if he wasn't pleased with the quality he'd just leave. He thought about leaving his phone but decided against it in the case of an emergency, (for Secco.) Just before exiting his vehicle, he opened the glove department and took a couple condoms, just in case he stayed.

Cioccolata hated condoms, another reason he ultimately preferred testing the women himself, but the only opportunities he had for that was from having submissives in the past and his rape dungeon now. Cumming in rubber just never felt satisfying, but it's the same old story for any man.

Cioccolata thus exited his vehicle elegantly and strode to the freshly painted black doors. He stepped inside to a show already going on, and as such, seeing mostly men's backs rather than faces amidst the dim room and flashing blue and purple lights. All the lights at the moment, at least, were directly above the stage, rotating around the room, so most of the men were indiscernible—this was just how he liked it.

He could only make out some heads that turned his way, but most minded their business, as they should. He was curious if he were the best dressed in the room, if so, he knew the bitches in here would really be getting thirsty. Either way, they still would be.

First stop, he headed over to the bar section toward the front, near the entrance. He only took a moment to survey everything. It looked decent enough in here. At the bar he ordered a cigar and just one more drink—white chocolate liquor. It was a fitting drink for him really. He left the bartender some "pocket change."

He then intentionally searched a seat that wasn't far from the stage, while also being somewhat of a space between other men. It was then as he was walking around to find a seat that the music struck out to him. It sounded like heavy metal. The lyrics rang out, going:

"_Jesus Christ looks like me._

_Jesus Christ…_

_Jesus Christ looks like me. _

_Jesus Christ…" _

Cioccolata, being a man of fine taste, recognized the voice of the lead singer of Type O Negative. This song had to have been at least a few years old though, as he in an instant remembered the mid-90s; just 5 years ago... Busy times, but nevertheless, good times.

Then he found a seat. As soon as he sat down, he wasted no time, he lit his cigar ablaze, crossed his leg over his other knee, and had his stacks ready.

To his delight, the female dancing at that moment was a dark blonde, a bit of a tan. She wore a sexy neon green, sling shot type, one-piece bikini thong, complete with clear heeled stilettos. On one of her legs only was a fishnet thigh high, one long run through it, the other leg, a black, studded leather garter. On her neck a black choker with a ring hanging down. He was already into that alternative style and the first thing he noticed besides her thick thighs, was her lusciously full, glossy pink DSLs.

She was dancing low on the floor, twerking her ass in another guy's face, and so Cioccolata patiently awaited her to make her rounds, but it took several minutes. He watched her rock her body up and down, like she's riding dick for an oofy looking fuck, and his own dick was harder. But after some time, this began to aggravate him.

_Fuck this_, he thought. He didn't come in this place, spend money on a drink and cigar just to watch this whore shake her ass for other men, not when he was the best dressed out of them all! Cioccolata was obviously one of those men that got irritated whilst partaking in an activity meant to be enjoyable. Really, he was simply narcissistic and believed that, unless the woman was strictly on the pole, she should only be shaking her ass right in front of him.

He blew out a puff of his cigar in frustration aimed at her ass and was just ready to forcibly grab her attention when she finally turned around and started crawling her ass toward him on all fours. Ah, so it's victory for Cioccolata after all, he thought. His heart leapt in excitement just watching, waiting. Not only that, but he just loved seeing a woman crawling on all fours like an animal. His mind flashed to his own slaves, crawling like that. Should he…?

Just then, the music changed to _"Lucretia my Reflection."_ Briefly reflecting on the memories accompanied by such throwbacks, he was next to appreciate how well it fit the atmosphere, as she sauntered closer still.

The only thing she must have seen moving toward him was the outline of his dark green hair, and the ember of his cigar as he pulled it between his lips, exhalations floating about at short intervals. The smoke enveloped her flawless, 5'7 body as she slithered through the clouds.

Cioccolata had the liquor kicking him in the ass too much by now, he never held it down well, so he was ten times the normal bold asshole. As she inched up closer to him, he eyed up her C-cups dangling down, looking like they were ready to fall out of her outfit. He already had her conquest set in stone in his mind. It looked like it was going to be one of those nights.

By the time she finally made it up to him, the smoke had settled, and she saw him clearly. As the smoke plumes dissipated, she was struck by the full handsome, white smirk before her. Without his war paint, Cioccolata wasn't frightening looking at all, not in that sense; there was only stony hard featured masculinity in its implied contours. God only knows the effect on a woman.

The stripper was emboldened by her drug habit; a vice which became increasingly necessary to carry out her line of work; especially on her long nights such as this one.

"Mmm, you look like a big daddy…" her sweet tone lulled and continued, "what do you have for me?" she puckered her lips into a pout and batted her mascaraed eye lashes, clearly capitalizing off those fat lips. He wondered if her pussy was fat too.

"Come closer and find out." He teased, in a low and equally bold tone.

She leaned her neck down, her face coming closer to his, and she really wanted to, for more reasons than one. When she got a better look at his clothes, his beige suit proclaiming itself a loud contrast to the blue and yellow lights, the silk tie, the Rolex she caught a glimpse of peeking at his sleeve, she was instantly excited, and wondered if he were a gangster. It might seem like a bold assumption. However, this wasn't the case in Italy during the time period. Not only that, but this stripper was exceptionally aloft with the worst of feminine longings—she often went to sleep at night dreaming of being wrapped in riches from a male "supplier." A bonafide gold-digger was this woman—she zeroed in on any male especially those who smelled like lira.

She was pleased with what she saw, but not nearly as pleased as when she felt his cool hands slipping bills into her sling-shot bikini, the tips just grazing her nipples. He pulled his hand away, but not without deliberately copping a feel of her tits, and she knew it. A little touching was always alright, but if what she suspected of him were true, then playing around could stretch beyond that for men like him.

She didn't bother to look how much it was, she knew he was loaded. In this position, her ass was out to anyone else behind her, and from where Cioccolata was sitting, there was no other men to his left or right side that could see what they did.

And being this close to him now, she couldn't get over just how sexy he was, he had the brightest, clearest green eyes which was not something you saw every day in this country. She saw he had small, gold hoop earrings in both ears, confirming to her again that he had money.

Her natural bold disposition intensified with the thought of pleasing this man more, milking him for what he had. She was exceptional at her job. So, she leaned further to his face, whispering, "Thank you, daddy," as she tilted her face into a kiss. Cioccolata banked on the opportunity, he took her lips aggressively—yet gently—into his own, no hands. Their jaws locked over each other's perfectly, and both had to have felt the chemistry.

Cioccolata's dick was rock hard and the stripper's pussy was instantaneously wet through the G-string. She moaned lightly into his mouth, and to that, an unintentionally low hum almost sounding in reply. He tasted something now on his taste buds, undoubtedly her pink lipstick. It was only something he noticed, without any thought on it one way or the other; only the kiss itself was driving him insane. But he wasn't going to start putting his tongue in her mouth yet, he had to get this bitch hooked first; that required that he save some of his "bullets."

At the conclusion of the kiss, she knew it wasn't going to be strictly business anymore, but she proceeded on her routine. She sat back up, sitting her weight on her knees and legs wide open as if she were straddling the stage itself, then proceeded to push her sling-shot inward, toward her chest due to the cut of it, thus revealing her perky breast to him. She transferred the bills from him to her garter at her thigh.

After doing so, she struggled to find his eyes again, through the smoke—the blue and purple flashing lights all worked together to form a purple haze. Her pupils dilated, scanning the silhouette seated just below her, the lines around his broad shoulders and his locks the only absolute. She traced the perfect outline of his shoulders, his biceps, almost in a frenzy. She was dying to see his flirtatiously devious green eyes again. And then, as the haze cleared some, she found them. A wanton smile formed over her stained pink lips—their kiss not robbing them completely of the stain.

Cioccolata inhaled his cigar after she had found his eyes, then leaned back toward her and blew the smoke over her erect nipples. He noted she looked delighted by the gesture. He smirked again and chuckled, and she looked delighted anew to hear his voice. She ran her hands over her ribs, directly under her tits, all the way down to the bottom of her G-string saying, "What do you want to see next, daddy?"

"Shake your ass more first; save your kitty for last and daddy will have the biggest present for you yet, ok?" He licked his tan lips after saying it, trying hard to conceal his lust. From what he saw, she had quite "the whole package" in his book. A blue-eyed blonde that looked to have a nice ass from what he saw.

He cleared his throat from a heavy hit he took on the cigar, "What are you waiting for, eh? These bills aren't going to grow legs and jump out of my hand." He teased her again, but his tone was gruff, and practically exuding the lust he fought against.

She obeyed, only giggling in response, "Anything for my sugar daddy." She twirled her body around, leaning over on all fours again, and let him get a full view of her round ass. She had some dimples in her lower back, on top of each ass cheek like he liked, and she had enough meat on it to satisfy him. Her skinny waist only added to exaggerate her ass before him, and he felt a beast rising from his gut. Maybe the ass would have been better saved for last.

She proceeded on to make his life hell, twerking her ass from side to side, displaying mastery over her glute muscles. He finished the rest of his liquor and felt himself getting sucked into a reverie, recalling a particular woman who shared a similar body type. The burn accompanying an exceptionally large swig of the last of his liquor brought him back to reality.

She then leaned back with her weight on her legs again and began moving her body in an up and down motion. She could see the other men out before her, enjoying the frontal view of the show, but they didn't exist in her mind. She was completely enamored with the man behind her ass, supplying her.

She arched her back more, then dropped her ass to the floor, shaking her ass anew. Cioccolata threw a stack against her ass at that moment, then threw his hand down over it next. He smacked her ass hard soon after he slapped it with the stack. He gripped her ass, pulled, and shook it hard. She gasped in response, and her legs produced goose bumps after having felt the intensity of his slap, the burn on her ass cheek, and the feeling residing in her tissues from him pulling and squeezing. It only made her want more.

"_Brava, brava, brava, brava_. That's right. Shake that ass, _bebè. Brava ragazza_." And he smacked more pocket change on her ass as his compliments aided her passionate movements.

But she was so lost in it, she just kept going and going, never tiring; already she was under his thumb. So he redirected her.

"Now turn your ass back around and face me." He ordered.

She did, a slight blush glowing on her cheeks with relaxed eyes. Once she turned all the way around, she straddled one leg up and one knee on the floor. Her legs were, naturally, spread far, only a small gap was visible from her pussy to the floor, blue lights creeping beneath.

She was all the way to the edge of the stage, trying her best to be as close to him as possible before she revealed her most intimate part of all. She scooped the bills at her feet into her garter again, realizing it was so much already, that she'd have to run back to the locker room after she was done with him. But she didn't want to be done. She knew, after their earlier kiss—given how expertly he conducted it—that sex would be in store for them.

She lowered her hands over her tummy and watched Cioccolata's reaction. He stared with a slow smirk forming. She pushed her G-string to the side, revealing full pussy lips, more than likely accentuated from being aroused herself. The positioning of having one leg propped up with the other down, and her height slightly above him, gave him a perfect frame of view.

His eyes widened. "_Oooooohhh!_" he exclaimed. His entire face beamed like he was looking over a fresh film, except now, his reaction was due in part to the anticipation to bury himself inside her. He bit his lip and inhaled deeply. She seemed to be getting horny from his exaggerated response.

"Spread it." He ordered flatly.

But she teased. Only spreading one flap, not the other, and only briefly hitting him with just a glimpse of pink flesh. He leaned forward in his seat, and she didn't move, only admired the frame of the bit of his back that she glimpsed. His clothes fit him too perfect and she found herself wishing she could see more of his bare skin. She was instantly excited when she saw what he was leaning forward for. He had a thick stack in his hand, and he hovered it over her clit, then flicked the bills with his other hand.

The lira hit her nub with the most exquisite sensation; not too hard, neither too soft. He sent a jolt of nerves running through her tissue, and she felt herself get more wet just from that. But then it was intensified when, as she looked down, saw him smiling up at her. Oh, how she wanted to sit in his lap already.

He slipped the bills into her shoved aside G-string, but she caught a glimpse of a number on it, not one, two, three, or four.

Five. She pulled the bills out and counted five separate bills of 500,000 lira. She gasped, this, along with all of the other gracious tips he left her.

"Oh! Ohhh! But that's so much!" she exclaimed.

"That pussy is worth it," he replied, then continued in a lower tone, "Now all you need is something in it."

He ran his cool hand along her thigh now, the one without the fishnet, until he hooked his finger through her garter. He felt goosebumps emerge on her thighs as his hand climbed. He knew he really had her under his thumb now, and his dick was now so hard, he was afraid it would become stuck in place.

"Now quit the pole for tonight. Bounce your ass on this pole instead."

Her propped leg came down on the floor after he said it, she fixed her sling-shot one-piece bikini back into place. She leaned forward again close to his face, until she could smell the liquor and cigar exuding from his nostrils.

"You want an ultra-private lap dance, daddy?" she almost hummed the notes, her heart racing from his absolute boldness, something other clients are never so forward with.

He lifted his face so that his natural lips were only less than a half an inch from her full pinks, "_Di molto._" he quietly replied with the huskiest tone he had given her yet.

Had she not been sitting—had she been standing—she would have gone weak in her knees from the testosterone seemingly oozing from his voice. She made sure she had all her bearings before returning to her feet. She slowly leaned away from his face, regarding him once more before she had the resolve. But it didn't need much, she was excited; a classic, money hungry harlot.

She swung both legs around and her stilettos hit the landing, she stood there before him—the first time he saw her at full length, and he liked what he saw. Yes. Good. She'll make a nice addition to the dungeon. He thought in confirmation. He sat back still, his cigar a little more than halfway gone now, and took his final analysis of her tall, perfectly proportioned body and hourglass frame. His eyes lingered on her thighs, and how the fat of her thigh tried to escape the garter; seeing indents like that drove him mad. He wanted to rip everything off her already. The impending thoughts drove him wild, but what drove him wilder was thinking on what he'd do to her once she's stuffed in a cage.

"Come on…" she purred. She didn't need to tell him twice; he was already up. With no time wasted, she led him toward the back of the room, around a corner, and in a hallway that was clearly for staff only. He occupied himself the entire time by watching her perfect ass switch as she pranced in front of him. It was a really entertaining sixty-seconds.

The thin hall they entered next, through sheer drapes, was only slightly darker than the rest of the club, but they finally stopped when she reached a door. A bouncer at the end of the hall took one look at Cioccolata and said nothing, likely gathering what any random man would think upon seeing him. But Cioccolata stared at him for the moment it took for her to open the door, his hands in his pockets, as she then said sweetly, "You're getting our best room."

He already had a feeling that before he entered, judging by the atmosphere of the hall, that it would likely be highly sensual and relaxing. It was just that. Upon enter, there was another sheer drape they passed through only to reveal a cozy room with a few salt lamps lining the walls, a pole, a white, velvet lounge styled couch placed at an angle where the two walls at the left met, so that it was facing the pole. The only other light besides the lamps were coming from pink and purple overhead lights that dazzled out at the head of the pole. To the side of the lounge couch was a glass end table; entirely transparent. On it were a couple of coasters and a clear crystal ash tray. On the side of the table was also a brass incense holder, incense prepared and placed on at a forty-five-degree angle.

Cioccolata then walked over before her and made himself right at home. He laid his cigar at the hilt of the ashtray, then sat down on the velvet lounge. He looked over it shortly after, thinking about how much he'd blend into all this white if he came here in his "work clothes."

On the other hand, the stripper's heart was racing with anticipation, pounding with lewd excitement. But for two reasons, it wasn't just because of this client that her pussy was dripping to fuck; she had to get another fix to make the time even better. So, she figured she'd tell a half-truth that she was just going to run to the locker room and put the money away.

"Give me a minute, okay daddy? I'm just going to put the tips in my locker." She gave a flirtatious smile, and turned on her heel, but Cioccolata stopped her.

"Wait." And she stopped mid-pace, "Why don't you just drop them on the table here? Don't you want to see your earnings for the night as you're getting your back blown out, doll?" he said dryly.

That was a good idea, really. She would rather just leave it. But in her excitement and trepidation, she made an impulsive decision instead. She turned back around, dropped the money on the table and said "You're right…" then she switched her hips around the table, toward him, until she put just one knee on the lounge with him, leaning into him next and saying, "I'll be right back; trust me, daddy." She put her hand on his thigh and eased it up higher. She pouted her lips out and gave puppy dog eyes as if that were going to have an effect on him. It didn't.

He looked instead at the ring choker on her slender neck. He moved his hand to it, slipped his finger inside the ring and tugged, snapping her closer to him, shocking her enough that she grabbed his waist as she almost fell forward on him.

Her mouth went agape in surprise as his stern face loomed over hers as he spoke with sensual threat, nonetheless, still frightening, despite how much more wet it filled her pussy for him.

"Is that how you treat a man who has paid you for a service? You make him wait, hm?" The look in his eyes, she felt, peered through her soul, but she thought nothing of it other than lust, never realizing it was the crazed look of an unsound mind. In fact, this act alone would be analyzed as a red flag by a brighter woman. But he was a paradox to her. His boldness and aggression turned her on more than anything else, while he still possessed the lightest touch at times, and the sweetest tone in his voice. And in reality, it was really true, what he was pointing out. Not only that, but she was sure now, after getting a full, better look at him in slightly more consistent lighting, there was no doubt—he had to be a gangster.

_But he's so sweet_… she thought to herself. He had to be, even if what he tipped her wasn't a lot for him, it was the fact that he seemed to like her so much. He had to. Behind all that machoism, there had to be a sweetheart in there. So, with this in mind, she pressed it further, trying to appeal to him in any way. A game of manipulation, by two master manipulators in their own separate rights, ensued.

"Oh baby, never." she replied, and she worked her hand up his chest as she formulated her next appeal. She continued with, "It's because you were so generous that I want to make sure you have a really good time. So I have to go get something, for that reason. It'll make me feel even better, so I can make you feel even better too."

"Is that right." He barely phrased it as a question. "Now I'm curious. What is it that you have to do to make yourself feel better?"

For the first time yet, she felt rather embarrassed, but after figuring he was a rough figure himself, it couldn't possibly be strange to say. It was just rarely something you'd tell a client, even if they suspected it. Luckily for her, there was a knowing glimmer in his eyes. Cioccolata of course, was in business with the Don responsible for the explosion of drug trafficking in major metropolitan cities such as the abode of _Panini Alla Cannella; _he understood her fix was a line of cocaine.

His smile of approval excited the stripper, who did not realize the source stemmed from a sense of triumph. He viewed their entire correspondence as a game, one where he would wear her down further and further under his thumb and would ultimately end in victory for him.

Assuring her that she may do so in his presence was all the enabling she needed. He knew that giving her the comfort to do so in front of him would only build her trust in him, and thus, it was the only reason he had suggested it. Her heart thud with only the excitement an addict would understand. Her blue eyes looked wildly at him, and she clenched his suit jacket between her fingers.

She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but he put his finger in front of her mouth.

"Just one condition that you wouldn't find too hard to accept, I'm sure… you come home with me tonight. I want to put you in my dungeon." He emphasized the last words slowly and deliberately, then gauged her reaction.

As soon as she heard the condition, it was no problem at all for her. She rather hoped he would. A loaded man such as him would be a steady supplier for her. But that wasn't her sole concern for him, she was utterly swept away with his charms. In combination, there was no way she could say no and not seem stupid—it would be the gravest error in the world.

_Dungeon_. She knew right away what that implied, taking it only in the kinky sense, validating her own sexual fantasies rather than realizing that the dungeon was quite literal. No such thought entered her mind, and his dirty smile only affirmed her original interpretation of it.

Her upper chest flushed, and soon enough, her neck and cheeks were next. She put her head down quickly as if to shield this, while having the awareness that he already would have saw; he seemed to be staring at her now with the clearest intent that she was able to witness in the increased lighting. She glanced at him under her lashes, still even wondering how she were going to respond to him, when she suddenly lifted her face up again, and met his provocative glare once more.

"…Really? Your dungeon?" her sweet voice cooed. She continued, despite almost losing her nerve after holding eye contact with him for so long; his eyes bored into her as if he were taking her soul. "You know we're not supposed to go home with our clients, right?" her lips curled up into a perfect curve, making a bashful smile, then she continued teasing, "It sounds scary… what would you do to me in there? Torture me? Hehehe…You're just a dirty, scary man like that, hmm?"

And she saw his hand come out of his pocket, the one closest to her leg. He leaned forward slightly, pushing past her G-string, putting his hands on her again boldly, and revealed her pussy on his own terms this time. With the first two fingers, he rubbed her clit.

"Yes, I will. A dirty, scary man? Yes, I am." He stated with full, literal connotation, while he eyed up her pretty pink pussy, preferring if he could, to not break his eyes from it, but only doing so for the obligation of hypnotizing her. He brought his eyes to hers again, then stated, "So, I'm sure you'll be making an exception."

His eyes to her, amidst her pleasure, seemed to turn back to hers in slowed motion. Her mouth parted as she watched him do so, and she exhaled in brief pleasure. He soon took his fingers away, then fixed her G-string to make herself half-decent again. She didn't want it to stop.

And his soft chuckle was only more soothing to her now, "You're so wet. Why is that?" He lifted his hand to her mouth, and she instinctively opened her mouth, and she let his fingers with her feminine fluids melt into her mouth. "As if you're ready for me…" he teased and chuckled again in his throat, continuing, "Will you be that wet once I've tied you up later?"

Her eyes closed as she sucked on his fingers, going along with the motion as he stroked them along her smooth tongue and palate, which now gripped his fingers. She felt his other hand smooth itself over her breast, but she simply melted into that too. He pulled at her nipples, playfully hardening the nubs, twisting them and almost encompassing her entire tit in his free hand. He gave it a slight squeeze, then ran his hand slowly and deliberately down her waist until he took hold of her one ass cheek, squeezing it toward him, pulling it apart until she felt her anal muscles involuntarily squeeze. Her body became jelly as it was pulled toward him more and she felt the heat radiating from him. She opened her eyes again slightly, and just then, the palm of his large hand landed hard on the same ass cheek he was previously coddling.

"_Go._" He commanded her already, and she was officially his bitch without his dick in her yet.

With just one more flirtatious smile, she got off the lounge, slightly unsteady on her feet. After catching her bearings, she turned around and left the room as if she had a renewed urgency, and she rightfully should have for a few different reasons.

He watched her ass moving further and further away, noting what a good, obedient slave she would become.

She looked back on him again as she closed the dark sheer drapes, just a bit of her blushing face peeking through and assuring him, "I'll be fast."

He watched her switching ass leave, and then he sat back again as if he didn't know what to do with himself, but that only lasted for fifteen seconds. He opened his eyes, then started busying himself. He took off his suit jacket, leaving himself then in his striated pale green button down. As he waited, he finished his cigar, now toward the end of its life, and pondered with excitement of the new addition of a favorable slave to the dungeon, rather than the sooner coming sex.

It was amazing to him to see time and time again how little coaxing and prodding there is to be done with dirty sluts like her. All it took really, was to play on their insecurities, along with subtle manipulation that was so easy a child could do. He also imagined that from the little bit of attention he gave her, she believed that he must actually care about her. Pfft.

He saw this woman as being a weakling mentally, and this validated him in his future treatment of her. (Not that he needed any to justify his actions.) If she makes herself so easy to be conquered, then it was his right to exploit her. When one is weak willed, man or woman, they deserve everything that's coming to them. His thoughts were partly serious sentiments of his mixed with fantasy.

Then his mind wandered in a new direction, as he savored the taste of his cigar with his pallet, of what Secco was doing at the moment. He was sort of tempted to call him in that moment, but he knew she said she'd be fast. But then he thought maybe he'd just leave him a voicemail, make it quick. It might be best to let him now he might not be back for a little while longer. Secco was always in charge of the estate and looking after the slaves while Cioccolata was gone. This was just courtesy. More than that however, Secco might start to think that Cioccolata had indeed found himself caught up in a tussle.

He took his phone from his jacket pocket and speed dialed Secco. He was hoping he didn't answer. One time he called Secco with the intent of just leaving him a quick voicemail, but Secco had answered, so Cioccolata thought to simply hang up in that case as he didn't want to be stuck on the phone with him. But that turned out to be a big mistake. Secco blew up his phone immediately afterward, his phone rang for a straight minute before he answered and snapped on the gimp boy. If Secco were to do that to him at a time like this, he'd have him demoted from pet status and in the dungeon next, so he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Cioccolata thought that him and Secco's phoning may one day either be to their advantage or detriment, but he didn't actually go over these concerns of his with Secco. It seemed that the day would never come that such a life or death situation would present itself to him; he concluded that he was simply too powerful to get himself caught up in such a tangle.

Cioccolata held the phone to his ear but there was no answer. He had a slightly disgusted look on his face as he gave a silent prayer that Secco would not answer. To his jubilation, he was greeted by the automated message of the voicemail system.

"Secco, it's me." He began with the same typical opener, "I'm not going to be back until a little bit later. Don't worry, nothing happened. Also, I hope you didn't neglect Caramella from being so fixated on your favorite girl. Anyway, I'll see you." He hung up. It was possible that the slaves were already asleep by now, but Secco was often a night owl and a light sleeper on top of it. Another great thing about him due to this was that he made a good watch dog. But if he knew him, he was probably sprawled on the couch watching late night shows at this time.

Then he briefly thought about Caramella again after he returned his phone to his jacket pocket, which he now folded sloppily on the glass end table. His cigar was already extinguished in the ashtray beside it, he had done so as he left the voicemail for Secco. Finally, He lit the incense just because.

The stripper returned, she approached the drapes, and upon opening them, she smiled at him as if a brand-new woman, or soon to be rather. Seeing her again, he noted something was indeed a bit different about her, but realized it was because she must have reapplied her pink lipstick. She looked pleased upon seeing him with the suit jacket off.

"I'm so happy to see that you've made yourself more comfortable, daddy." And she was back to her flirting anew. Cioccolata engaged in the flirting games in response, asking why she reapplied her lipstick only if it'll come off again. She then sauntered her way back to the lounge, looking over his whole body with clear relish in her liquid-like blue eyes.

She placed the coke on the end table before her, then sat her perfect ass on Cioccolata's lap facing away from him. She felt his erect manhood almost pressing against her asshole and felt herself grow hornier. She almost felt that she didn't want to do anything else than to rapidly have him plunged inside of her. She leaned down to the floor while sitting on him still, wrapped her hands around her ankles and shook her ass which now was slightly raised above his crotch. Cioccolata bit his lip and now loosened his tie upon seeing it.

With that, she chose to reply to his previous flirt, and she began to raise herself back up slowly, provocatively, so that right before him, he could observe the arch in her back becoming more defined as she leaned in further. "I reapplied because I want you to be able to see it all on your fat cock as I'm kissing and sucking on it, big daddy." She teased.

His lips pursed in response, as his typical mannerism when he was excited. With the image in mind, he got hornier. All that came in response from him was a heavy exhale, with his hand placed on her ass in an attempt to somewhat relieve his tension, and she spoke again just as he did.

"Now you've been being bad and breaking rules too much, daddy. You can't keep touching me, especially not for this."

He took his hand away reluctantly and replied, "Oh? Enjoy telling me what to do right now while you can." He spoke gruffly, with a jolly tone in his voice that only thinly veiled the note of threat.

She noticed the change in his tone, but with her hormones getting the best of her, she hardly thought much on it, rather it only excited her more. In her mind, she simply linked it to the kinky dungeon talk. This was her downfall in life and would be her greatest one now. What to many women might have been interpreted as a red flag, passed by her senselessly. She was a slave to her pleasure-seeking; no thoughts given. By Fate's command she would find herself being a literal slave to the tails of the coin for which she flipped.

On the other hand, Cioccolata cared little that he expressed a true sentiment, the truest one he gave all night. He already had her wrapped around his finger; she was his.

Just then, she giggled as she wiggled around on his lap more, now seated firmly on his erection, and she turned her face slightly to face him. He could see now that she was leaning forward opening the slight baggie that held the coke on the glass end table. She spoke in a lighter tone, as if easing a tension in response to his earlier quip.

"I didn't tell you my name… It's Ginger." She smiled. Obviously it was her stripper name.

Biting back sarcasm, Cioccolata instead repeated her name to her now, rolling it off his tongue deliberately. Her eyes lit up, clearly infatuated with the way he said it, but her eyes began to take on a look of anticipation, as if she were waiting for something else, and that she might even speak again soon, so he added, "Cioccolata."

"Your name?" she asked dubiously, then continued, "It sounds like it could be one of our girl's names!" She giggled, but now she rubbed his thigh as if to pacify him in of offense. He took it as no sort of slight. But he did appreciate that she knew better, and this act cleared his earlier frustration.

"It could be." He admitted, chuckling thereafter, really only to convey to her that no harm was done. But now he could hardly contain himself from not touching at all, her bright green slingshot outfit fitted around her body in such a way that was only tantalizing for him in the sensually lit room.

Meanwhile, the stripper doubted that he had given her his genuine name, and that validated her suspension of him being a gangster. She asked no further question about it, and instead teased again.

"Is it your name because you're really just sweet? Hehe." She began rolling up one of her lira into a straw, then turned her face slightly again to meet his green eyes, "Do you taste like chocolate, too?"

"There's only one way to find out," He said only half-jokingly, then continued, "Why are you making me wait so long after I've already paid your bills?"

She blushed and laughed, replying, "I'm so sorry…" she puckered her lips again continuing, "It's only because I want to prolong the moment… and also because I have a surprise for you, daddy."

She already had a straight line on the table, but another half was sectioned off, the paraphernalia in clear view. She then quickly snorted the powder trail with the rolled-up bill, a not so attractively sounding inhale, and leant her head back. Cioccolata had some memories seeing it, he too, did coke socially now and then in the '80s, when it was more socially acceptable. But he had better things to worry about, such as the surprise.

"I'm so curious to know what it is." He remarked, while not actually asking what it was.

After a moment to feel her high, she exhaled and then stated in an even sweeter tone, "You'll love it." She giggled again, "And I arranged it because of you being so good to me."

"_Bene_. Even more presents for me." He said in mirth, but then wondered what it could be. The only thing he could think of is more drinks, or another cigar. Was she having another stripper come in? he briefly wondered. They were all good possibilities.

All the innocent possibilities soon vanished with the dawning of a grim thought. Sudden recognition of what he had been out for on this night hit him hard. For the briefest moment, the threat of a hit stunned him. His logic kicked in full gear, backpedaling the events and how it could even be possible—what if the owner of _Panini Alla Cannella _was partnered with a Passione operative? Scanning his memory banks, he could recall nothing of the sort—albeit, he didn't exactly have access to all this information.

Just then, the stripper placed her hands on both outer sides of his legs as leverage, then grazed her ass down his erection, then up it again. She continued this motion a couple of times, looking as though she were getting lost in doing so, each time she grinded back up his erection, seemed to be with more ferocity. Needless to say, it put Cioccolata into a spell, he knew the only way to relieve it was to get rid of the fabric between them—his pants mainly, as she was already perfectly half naked.

Watching her bare back, he exhaled deeply. He traced with his eyes the curves along her sides, the trail of her vertebrae, with only the ties of her slingshot at the nape of her neck tied and above her ass; everywhere else completely nude, delicate white skin. He had to remind himself that he couldn't touch, for now; but nevertheless, the desire was real. He pictured himself just swiping a wade of her long blonde hair and bending her over on this lounge. Yes, he wanted her to feel him finally—and when he takes her to the dungeon, show her the real Cioccolata.

Just as he was thinking this, he found himself falling more and more into a reverie, thoroughly feeling as though he were being hypnotized by the motion of her body, in combination with the total liquor he's drank plus nicotine. And then, just like that, it was easier to restrain himself. He couldn't keep his eyes off her perfect, round white ass as she kneaded into him with it. It was with this experience, that he shrugged off his paranoia.

Her motions altered after a bit; she began facing to the side, swiveling and hovering her ass above his crotch, bringing attention to the bulge already there, then watching him in her new position. His eyes trailed along her shapely leg enveloped in fishnet, to the side of her flat belly and abs, noting how the straps of the slingshot from her large tits traveled down to her mid half, hardly meeting the skin, only becoming plastered to her skin once the neon green straps met her abdomen and cupped her pussy lips. The straps hardly covered her nipples, and he wanted them off finally. But just when he said that, she pushed the material inward toward her chest, and revealed her fresh, erect nipples to him once more.

She played with them, squeezing them as she bit her shiny pink lips, looking him in the eyes. At this angle, her body showcased what a perfect hourglass she had, her neck arching inward perfectly while her bottom poked out a great deal, giving the illusion that she was quite thick, but really, it wasn't too much body fat on her; her tall height just distributed her weight evenly with perfection. What a great specimen to be placed in a cage… soon to be his. He reveled in this thought alone, as his eyes made love to her body, watching her hands caress her own melons, then up her neck, until her elbows arched in the air, displaying her nude breast lewdly and shamelessly.

Just then, she switched up her motion and position yet again. As soon as he saw her throw one of her legs over his lap he knew she were going to straddle him. Only one of her legs did, the other, her heeled foot was planted beside his leg, and she faced him full on. She wasn't sitting on his lap again thankfully, she stood over his crotch on her knees, so that at their height, she was above him. _No, not this_, he thought regretfully. Sure, it was nice to see her titties so close, but he just hated someone's altitude to be above his own in this way. But he didn't nitpick it any further and simply enjoyed the view. It wasn't too much of a height difference than what was there when she was on stage, but the closer proximity gave the illusion of the former.

The stripper ran her hands along her curves, until she reached the bottom of her G-string, the green patch protecting her fat, still unsatisfied pussy. She hovered her ass back down slowly, more and more until she was barely touching his crotch. He felt her thick ass only make contact sometimes and she twisted her hips around him, only serving to agonize him. It began to remind him like this lap dance was only meant to advertise to him just how well she would be able to glide on his dick; either that, or she was stalling him…

Cioccolata was still a man, even if he was possibly possessed by Satan. As much as the paranoia hung over him, he could not pull himself away now. Just then, her fingers only trailed over the G-string, teasing, not moving it to the side. To make things worse, she sat back down on his crotch, feeling her ass settle over his entire lap as if she had thoroughly saturated him. Just when it was driving him mad too much, she leaned back, her hand behind her on his knee, and the other she used to finally push the G-string to the side.

She revealed her flushed pussy to him, not only that; but opened her outer and inner lips so he was able to get a full view on where he was soon to be heading. Her hole was sewn with mucous-like fluid, revealing to him that she enjoyed her show for him incredibly. How a slut like her was able to maintain such a neat, pristine kitty was unknown to him, and perhaps could only be attributed to her age; if he could guess, she was in her early twenties. He felt very fortunate to be taking another young woman back to the dungeon.

The more pressing issue right now was what he was going to do with his junk, so he decided he would get vocal about it, he was more than satisfied with the lap dance.

"Good girl. No more. You made daddy too horny. Suck my dick, now." He commanded, and hearing his own voice in his ears, he could distinguish the lust.

She looked as though she didn't need to be told twice; as if she were only waiting for the green light. Her face lit with renewed excitement along with a crimson flush in the cheeks, and she crawled off his lap.

Ginger began feeling his erection in his pants cautiously, as if it were something dangerous, but really, she was just impressed with the size of it. Her blonde hair hung over his lap, and her body was positioned on the lounge in a way that he was able to look upon the side angle of her body; she was on her knees with her ass bent out. Now that the previous act was over, he knew there wasn't a problem with putting his hands on her again, so he slapped his palm down on her full ass cheek, resisting the temptation to finger her. Thank god he couldn't see it.

She smiled and moaned in response. He was unzipping his beige dress pants now, letting her bare breast hang down over his lap. "Cioccolata…" she spoke quietly, sensuously testing his name on her lips, and then continuing, "You're the boldest man I've ever had," she paused and chuckled, "I love how you tell me what to do." Her full pink lips puckered into a devious smile.

He replied, "Then you must get a lot of losers in here, hm?"

She giggled, commenting back, fully engaged in the flirting yet again. By now she had his pants unzipped, revealing his dick now only sheltered by his black thong. She commented on this, "Ohhh, you wear thongs too? Why is that?" She pressed her full breast against his shaft, and he reveled in the sensation before he replied, biting his lip and inhaling through his teeth.

"Because when you have a body like me, you can wear whatever you want." He stated as a matter of fact, because it was. He put his hand on her head then, ready to guide her on sucking his dick.

She was staring deep into his eyes as he said it, feeling herself now being pulled into his realm, that is, one that was merely an illusion to her; she had no true idea yet what being in his realm meant.

His hand on her head encouraged her, she with trepidation, finally revealed what was really behind his massive erection. Ecstatic wasn't the word to describe how she felt when her eyes absorbed it all. _He's so big! _Her mind exclaimed, but she was also flattered that he was that turned on by her. She went to touch his hardness just then, taking it in her hand and delicately running her palm over the smooth foreskin which ironically encased a bone hardness.

She took everything in. The smell—how could it even be described? She knew it very well, between any given man it wasn't too different from the other, and for the most part, the same could be said from the taste of their cum. All that could be said about it was that it was a smell which she welcomed, and for him, it was one which she desired much more than her recent sex partners.

The sight—it was simply amazing. His dick was a shade darker than his tanned skin, taking a more olive complexion. It was long, if she had to guess, he was anywhere from ten to twelve inches, but she couldn't decide exactly, despite how many dicks she's seen. A safe estimate would be about eleven inches. The length of him wasn't completely straight; it curved along the midway. She was delighted by this; in her experience, slightly curved dicks just felt better.

The girth was another matter, it certainly was thick. Again, to guess, perhaps over an inch and a half at the base, slightly leveling out as the length ran. A pronounced vein ran along the top of his dick, reaching to the darkened tip, and a couple smaller ones branched out on the underside of the dickhead. The latter was ruddy, but toward the center took a dark pink hue. His balls shared this coloring, and they were full and well defined, though perhaps so momentarily from holding arousal for a while.

The taste—she could hardly wait to find out. And so, she inched closer, placing her lips first on the head of his dick, she jerked down on the foreskin until it was stretched down completely, and when she heard him sigh and his fingers begin to branch through the roots of her hair, it egged her on to go further, be bolder. She began planting kisses around the tips, then down his length. She kissed his balls too, both testicles. She arched her back, and her tits rested on his thighs heavily.

She worked her way back up his length, but this time tilting her face, and running the length within the fleshy folds of her lips. She heard him sigh again, and when she finally prepared herself to look up at him, she saw that he was looking down at her intently, with great focus and concentration. But curiously, his dark eyebrows were furrowed in pleasurable distress, his green eyes were now incredibly deep and penetrating now with his lust awakened. She planted more kisses on him, all while maintaining eye contact, and began rubbing her pink lips along his length, leaving the trails on his dick like she previously promised.

Cioccolata sighed again, thinking about what a beautiful sight in was, when he spoke again, now, before she put him in her mouth.

"Good. Put it your mouth now, _bebè._ No hands." He leaned his head back into the neck of the lounge, relaxing more and more. He naturally did prefer having a blowjob with no hands, it was incredibly sexy for him. But his reasons for preferring no hands was also largely due to the fact that he couldn't last otherwise, with the added pressure. His dick was highly sensitive, so he had to prolong what he could—the struggles of a man with an intact foreskin!

"Yes daddy," she readily replied. She gripped the sides of his thighs, then submerged his dick between her lips, until her tongue firmly cushioned him in her mouth between her palate. From his view, he could see her head bobble over him, and her beautiful cleavage spilling over into his lap. Her nipples were so hard that he could feel them through the fabric of his trousers.

As her pace steadily increased, she moaned slightly, here and there, and he could feel the vibrations along his length. His muscles tensed in his legs, his toes curled a bit in his loafers, and he began biting his lip again. Those DSLs of hers sure had some suction; he was definitely going to be fucking her face often in the dungeon. Just when he thought it couldn't get any better, she pulled, between her lips, the loosest flap of his foreskin, then concluded by suckling all around his girth.

"_Ohhhh… Good, good, good, gooood, good, goooood. Fuck_." He moaned rather shamelessly now, breaking his previous, near silence, except for the occasional sighs.

You see, some men often speak of making a woman their wife if she delivers extraordinarily well for them sexually. Some men were won over by the head, some men were won over by the pussy. Still others were even won over by sodomy. Cioccolata might have been won over by any one of these things but marrying a woman over them never once crossed his mind. Now that he was in the process of establishing his harem, however, the ambition was not to put a "ring on it," but a "chain on it."

His grip tightened along her blonde roots, and he began pressing her face into his dick more, fucking her tonsils and everything, until the base of his dick and balls were saturated in her saliva. Soon enough it was just his groans, her moans, and saliva to be heard throughout.

After about a minute of this accelerated romp, he pressed and held her face down into his crotch, until his dick hit the back of her throat. She initially resisted, until she recognized that it was his intent to hold her there. He loved the deep throating, but he really stopped the action because he was trying to slow his cum build up. He exhaled saying, "_Ahhh...Gesù, brava… brava, brava ragazza. Mmmm…_"

Just as he felt his eyes rolling back in his head still sitting like this, he heard the unmistakable sound of his phone's muffled ring in his jacket pocket on the glass end table.

_I'm not hearing what I think I'm hearing. Please don't tell me that's my phone… Secco, you motherfucker! _He thought, as he grinded his teeth in his mouth, his jaws locked in fury. He let Ginger's head go then leaned forward in the lounge. He expertly removed his phone quickly from his pocket, then saying to her almost dismissively, "_Scusami_, I have to take this."

Given that he had already left a voicemail for his lackey, there was no reason for Secco to be calling him. Sure, the call could have been for any number of stupid reasons, but in spite of this, Cioccolata swallowed down a slight sense of alarm for the possibility of otherwise.

As it soon turned out, Secco's call was legitimate.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sexy motion, just take my time  
The way she moves her lips  
Up and down my spine  
Got the rattle  
Snake wants to spit  
Call nine-seven-six and let my hand do the rest ~Rattlesnake Shake, Mötley Crüe_

* * *

**Capitolo XII:**

_-Il primo sottaceto: seconda fase-_

_Panini Alla Cannella, Rome, Italy—5, January 2000 _

Cioccolata pressed the talk button, which lit up green as he pressed in, and held the receiver to his ear. He leaned back again into the lounge and swung one arm along the top carelessly. There was obviously a look of pure disgust on his face as he mouthed, "_What?_" into it; he held the phone plastered at the side of his face in anger. Ginger on the other hand, didn't stop sucking his dick completely, although she went at a much more relaxed pace, still staring up at him now and then. He didn't notice this at first, he was too aggravated now, as he impatiently waited for the sound of Secco's retarded voice.

"C-Cioccolata?" The usual stuttered utterance of his name; he couldn't even count how many times he's heard his name said like this, but he would be willing to bet it was more than all of the times women have screamed his name. That was remarkably impressive, given how short of a time Cioccolata and Secco knew each other.

Cioccolata was short. "Why are you calling me?" He suddenly peered down at Ginger as he waited, and she averted her eyes, clearly not wanting to be caught being nosey. She went back to licking up and down his shaft. _She sure wants the dick, _he thought, and this lightened his mood only slightly.

"A-ah! _Ohh… uwa… _Are you busy or something?"

He replied quickly, "I am, now get to the point."

He could almost hear Secco's discomfort on the other end. He was likely fidgeting and doing weird stuff on the floor as they spoke. "It's the one girl… _Caramella_, uh…I think she's _sick_, Cioccolata."

"_Okay…" _He sounded out the word in a smart-ass tone. "What do you want me to do about it, eh?" This question came off as a paradox given Cioccolata's previous career.

"I-it's serious Cioccolata!" Secco sounded genuinely distressed, but then again, he always did over stupid shit. The frantic tone in his voice wasn't enough to convince him that this was anything other than a stomachache. Secco continued his whining, "This is _important!_ You need to come back and check her!"

Cioccolata said nothing, his face relaxed just a bit, with his lips parted and pearly whites showing. Just when he went to check the time on his watch, a curvaceous stripper peeked through the sheer curtains into the small, comfy room. His wrist was suspended in midair as he watched her, his elbow still rested along the lounge. Ginger stopped playing with his dick, to his relief. It was better he conserved himself during this cock block of Secco's. But now he was infatuated with the new stripper who Ginger now approached rather intimately, so he wondered the relationship. But he could barely focus on both, so he attempted to tune the women out.

He let out a deep breath, and just when he was about to reply, Secco spoke again.

"Are you _there?_"

"Yes. What's her symptoms?" He answered swiftly, and his tone revealed he had rather collected himself a great deal.

Secco sensed the profession urgency in his tone, so he replied just as swiftly.

"_Uhhh, _well she's curled up in a ball down there.. she's holding her stomach, she's moaning. She looks like she's in a lot of pain. I gave her some water and told her to drink it though, and I asked if she wanted something to eat and she shook her head. She didn't even say anything, I just happened to check on them and—Ah um…"

"I already know, you went over to jerk off to Nocciola and happened upon Caramella." He knew Secco caught himself awkwardly because he didn't mean to reveal that. He continued, "Well, that's just what _you_ observed. I'd have to know from her what the symptoms are for me to know what's wrong." Cioccolata purposely looked down at his dick in his lap in order to focus on the call at hand. Just by instinct he tucked it back into his black thongs.

"Ohhh…. Maybe I should ask her, then call you back then…"

His tone hitched again, abandoning his earlier reserve, "No, maybe you shouldn't. She'll be fine."

"_B-but Cioccolata! _ Don't you like her!? What if it's s-serial!"

Cioccolata didn't even bother correcting his grammatical error, he already knew what he meant to say, and he was at the point of trying anything to get him off the phone.

"She'll be fine." He said blankly now.

He glanced at the women who stood interestingly close to one another, Ginger leaning on the other, who was maybe five inches shorter than her. The new stripper was swarthy, he instantly wondered what she was.

Her jet-black hair was thick and tied into two pigtails. She held a glass of Pink Moscato in her hand, both of which were adorned with white fishnet gloves that tied at her middle fingers. The gloves ran only partly up her forearm. She of course wore an equally provocative lingerie; a white bralette top, made up of mostly straps. Silken hearts were the only things that covered her nipples, and the straps intricately ran down to outline her under breast, each one connected to the band that circled around just under her breast. Her thong matched the bralette, only a silken heart covering her pussy lips, straps connecting to a band under her belly button, which, along each end rose above her hips, tied in pretty ribbon bows. Above her belly button was a complementary strapped waist harness, serving no purpose at all in this fashion other than to provoke more attention. The straps made a horizontally bound x over her diaphragm. She wore no stockings at all, her olive legs were bare and inviting. Her body language spoke that she was loose, and he knew then that this was the surprise Ginger spoke of.

His eyes trailed up to her face, one that was pretty enough to satisfy him. Thick arched eyebrows, very dark black holes for eyes, a slightly bulbous yet flattering nose, and full lips that looked to have been dipped in plum purple lipstick—yet not as full as Ginger's. She had a heart shaped face and hairline, perfectly complementing her heart themed lingerie.

She had just noticed him staring at her, and their eyes met, green to black, but Secco ruined it.

"_Heyyyy! Hey! Cioccolata! Are you there?_"

"I'm here." He spat, "Just take her upstairs, put her in the back room with the medical equipment. I'll look at her later."

Secco nagged him more, "But when? It's already r-really late…"

Cioccolata looked at his watch. It was 12:48 AM.

"I'll be back in two hours. I'm going now." His tone acerbic.

"W-wait! What should I do after I move her?"

Cioccolata sighed exasperatedly, "Just stay in the room with her and watch her _of course. _Make it fun if you wish, but _no _funny business, understood? Tell her I'm going to take a look at her. She's strong, she'll live."

"Uaaaahhh!" Secco cried and moaned into the receiver, and Cioccolata quickly moved the phone away from his ear before he got ear raped. After his outburst Secco spoke in a gruff, strange voice, simply saying, "Okay." Then he hung up. Cioccolata was relieved. Secco was a subject of fascination for him from the very start, but other than that, the guy was rather incompetent; all ectomorphic brawns and no brains. He then put the phone back in his jacket pocket on the table.

The strippers were on him like flies on the shit, Ginger crawling up on the lounge with him again, with the other stripper's drink in hand. She now took a sip from the glass, and running her hand up his chest, she pressed the glass to his lips, whispering, "I'm _so _happy you're back."

He wouldn't have taken any, but he had a weakness for a woman serving him. She already knew very well what he liked; oh, how slavery would become her.

He took her ass and squeezed it as a greeting and reply after his call. She giggled and put her hand over his. Cioccolata wanted to resume testing Ginger's obedience to him, but he decided to first acknowledge the other stripper, who looked at him expectantly, standing in front of the pole affixed before them. When their eyes met again, she walked around the glass table, her B cups jiggling and hips switching, until she was on the lounge as well.

She took the glass from Ginger's and drank from it, while doing so, staring deeply into Cioccolata's eyes. She looked so bold about it, but suddenly, her reddened cheeks, despite her dark complexion, betrayed the assertion. "Ah… He really _is_ so handsome." She squeaked, an apparently natural mouse like tone.

Right after saying it, she giggled, and it looked like she regained her confidence. But Cioccolata dismantled it as soon as it came. He slipped his fingers between the silken heart over her nipple, catching the already erect nub between his index and middle finger. "And you're _so _sexy…What's your name?"

Her purple lips smiled in a manipulative innocence, "Icy." She replied, then continuing, "I already know _your_ name," And as her smile slipped increasingly into a smirk, "You've been so good to my sis."

They looked nothing alike, so he assumed she meant it in an endearing way, but he asked anyway, "She's your real sister, yes?"

"We're step-sisters," she batted her long black eyelashes, glanced at Ginger and back to him, continuing, "But sometimes we're more like girlfriends."

Cioccolata was now running his hand down her sides, until he gripped her love handles. Excitement now marked his features as he flirted anew, "_Ah. _Like you'll be tonight for me, _sì?_"

Maybe it was good Secco cock blocked on him for a minute there, he needed to get _in_ both women, and take them back to the dungeon.

Icy smiled full with her teeth now, not nearly as confidently as Ginger would, but enough to put up a front. Soon after, she began looking almost uncomfortable, but otherwise smitten by his attention. He sensed this, so he asked another question as his eyes roamed over her features. Perhaps the stolidity of his gaze which was what, in the first place, drew out some anxiety in her.

"Tell me, since you two are step-sisters…What _are_ you?"

He didn't ask in a derogatory way, and Icy had this asked of her many times considering her somewhat exotic look.

"She and I have different fathers; mine was Sicilian." She smiled meekly but flirtatiously.

He supposed then that some of his early assumption of the quality of the girls in this strip club wasn't altogether false.

"A Sicilian _angel…" _he breathed the last note silently, sensuously, clearly pointing out her style of lingerie. He was a bit intrigued by this knowledge, however. He had never fucked a full or part Sicilian before, that he knew of at least.

His eyes penetrated hers again, whereby they lingered, and he knew that he had just as quickly as the other, claimed this woman too.

Icy then lifted herself off the lounge and sauntered toward the pole. Cioccolata was finally able to get a good look at her ass, which didn't fail to disappoint what he had in mind given her only slightly pudgy and otherwise curvaceous figure. She looked back at him as she neared the pole, then looked forward again as she lifted her arms above her head and adjusted her pigtails. Once to the pole, she extended her arm above her, gripping the glistening rod and proceeding to wrap her body around it as though she had been doing it since she came out of the womb.

"I'll wait my turn, Cioccolata." She muttered seductively, and this pleased him greatly. Despite her being, indeed, very sexy, his preference, of course, remained with Ginger.

And now, Cioccolata was incredibly excited to be finally closing in toward the crux of this event. He took Ginger's jaw and pulled her face toward his, until his lips had overtaken hers, making her taste again the mixtures of alcohol, liquor and cigar in his saliva, swirling his tongue around hers. Her fleshy tongue reciprocated his affections, and she played around with his games, luring her deeper into his mouth, until, when he got her where he wanted her, bit down on her bottom lip.

She reflexively pulled away from the confusing mixture of pain and pleasure with a light yelp. He did this really, just to get her even more wet and prepared.

"Sit on my lap, _bebè_," He commanded, hardly containing himself, the kiss hardening his dick anew. "Face away from me and give me a real lap dance. Now."

Facing away from him was probably going to be hard for her, he knew. He had her wrapped around his finger so well, to the point she'd share her sister with him for free. But she dutifully and with pep, lifted her ass off the lounge and repositioned her bright green G-stringed ass right on his dick. He parted his legs for her, just enough so that she could fit herself between his; the only reason being that he now, especially with another woman waiting, needed to last. If he sat here with his legs closed, as he was rather tempted to do, he would definitely cum.

She pressed her ass all into his inner thighs and thong covered cock, feeling her fat, aroused pussy through the fabric between them. But more importantly, the sight already had him wild. Her ass was so perfectly round and sculpted, her waist was skinny, but her hips were wide; he could have been fooled into thinking it was Venus herself—Aphrodite—sitting upon his cock.

She tucked her long, wavy blonde hair behind one ear, then looked back at him slightly enough that all he could see was her liquidy blue eye and the bridge of her nose, the rest obscured by her shoulder, as she arched her back and jiggled her hips on him.

"_Ahhh…" _he breathed, and then instinctively gripped the ends of her ass hanging off his lap, hearing her lightly moan in response. But he wasn't going to put up with anymore of this teasing, the whore had to go to work now.

"Lift your ass up," he commanded her, and she did.

His pants were still unzipped, so he simply slid his thong to the side, then hers next. He heard her inhale as his fingers grazed over her fattened pussy, the lips slightly pink with the blood close to the surface. He rolled the pale, translucent green condom over his dick expertly. As he let his hand wander over her right ass cheek, he gradually wrapped his fingers around her hip bone below her naval and urged her back down on his dick which he held suspended at an angle ready for penetration.

He could already see she was wet and ready, between her lips glistened, and the head of his dick met her juices, pressed into her soft pink flesh until she cried out. Once her pussy slipped down and acclimated his girth, she no longer needed the prompting, and commenced to bouncing on his dick in a puerile manner which seemed fitting to her general observable personality—that or the cocaine high.

All of the verve she displayed in riding his dick was evident in the clap of her wet cheeks hard on his dick. Here he thought a whore's pussy could only be so tight, but hers out beat others which he had felt. And a stripper at that! Icy right away cheered Ginger on, "Yeah Ginger! Ride his dick!"

Through the action, he barely noticed Icy moving sensuously around the pole, but even still, it was amazing background for his peripheral vision.

Ginger was already moaning like a filthy harlot, moaning his name again and again, and all he really did was squeeze her ass, and slip his fingers through the neon green strings of her slingshot for encouragement. She seemed to suck up every gesture of his, and she twisted her body around slightly to look at him, with a lewd smile on her face, her big titties bare and nipples hardened. He couldn't resist, so he grabbed the one in his vision, squeezing hard into the tissue, giving special attention to the nubs. She appreciated the gesture all too well, she lifted her face to the ceiling and cried out his name again. _What an easy hole, _he thought deviously, as she bit her fat bottom lip with furrowed brows.

He took the opportunity further, as he noticed her blonde hair trail down her back, just grazing his thighs. He yanked her hair from the middle, making her arch her back further and she cried out in a pleasant surprise from the sudden aggression.

"Come on, slut. Pick up the pace." He hissed at her. He happened to look beside Ginger, and he could see Icy was now standing against the pole, rubbing her clit at a relaxed pace watching the action.

She slowed down on him to a grind, but for each stroke, she squeezed her pussy around his dick, making good use of those Kegels, the effect heavenly. She bit her fat bottom lip with furrowed brows as she continued thoroughly working all his cock's three major glands. Cioccolata slowly spread his legs out further, but Ginger seemed to notice, and so she began trying to pull his legs back closer inward.

Yanking her wrists and folding them behind her back, he responded in a gruff tone, "_Don't_."

"_Cioccolata_, o-ooohh… but your dick is so big, it just feels so good! I just wanted you in _deeper_." She moaned and panted in between, saying this all in a tone of innocent defiance.

"Just enjoy what you get._ Mi senti?_" For a man in the moment this might have been just a sexy tease, but for Cioccolata, it was a threat. He could not enjoy anything like this if he were not still in control to the absolute degree.

Fortunately, everything he said and commanded, his attitude in general only seemed to egg her on more. She continued to endeavor to please him.

"Oooh, yes baby! Anything you say, daddy!" She continued to ride him again feverishly, so he let go of her wrists after a minute, reveling in the moment of dominance. She switched up her motion, lifting her ass up and down and coming down hard; she exited all the way up to his head, gradually reinserting until he was balls deep.

"_Ngghh.. Mmm, good God_…_shit!_ Good girl, _brava…_" he panted as he pulled her ass down him each time she descended, continuing, "Daddy can tell how much you like his dick…" Not just in how she anxiously rode him like there was no tomorrow, but in the way her hot pussy squished to each stroke.

Ginger replied to his lewd comments with, "_Aaaaahhh! Oh, I love it! _Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

He was so into it now, that he hardly noticed Icy approaching the glass table, and snorting the remaining coke.

Ginger leaned forward more, barely paying attention to her sister while Cioccolata was simply enjoying seeing her ass bounce on him immensely, an ass man like himself couldn't ask for better. He pursed his lips at it, puffing out pleasured exhales through them, as he admired the way she worked his cock. She circled her hips on his lap, wiggled her ass from side to side, and leaned forward, arching her back into her grinding so that he could see her pink pussy swallow up his tanned cock. If that wasn't enough, she alternated more by switching to bouncing on dick.

"Arrgghhh, that's so fucking _good. _Your wet pussy is taking such good care of daddy's big dick." He ran his hands over her waist, down her hips, over her ass, squeezing and slapping it again, all working on her to level out her stamina. She moaned back lewd remarks in exchange, inquiring if he liked what he felt and saw, he replied of course, in the affirmative, and thus drawing from him more lewd remarks to counter.

He then noticed her cute, tight asshole. He began rubbing the tip of his thumb around it, with his other hand he dug his fingers into her waist. She was squeezing her breast at the time, and when she felt his finger, she gasped in yet another pleasant surprise. Her gasp encouraged him to press his thumb in deeper, which he ensured was already lubricated with the leftover fluids Ginger gifted him.

Her bottom inclined more to his playing with her asshole and began wiggling her hips around him in a circular motion. She evidently liked it; her increase in gasps couldn't lie.

"_What a dirty slut_. You like it in your ass too, don't you?" He spoke calmly, but his voice was very apparently marked by hot-blooded lust.

"Oh yes! Oh! Yes!" she cried in response, and Cioccolata slapped her ass with his other hand, then resumed grabbing her skinny waist.

Cioccolata began teasing her more with his thumb, and with his lewd comments, and in being distracted, did not see Icy crawling closer to them. But then he knew when he felt a tongue pressing into his balls. When he couldn't see Icy at the pole or at the end table anymore, he knew it was her. Ginger giggled, and what was going on was confirmed to him.

"Nnngg, ahhh!" He began moaning like an animal far past being in heat, the combination of pressure trying hard to break him. "Christ! _Shit_!" He slammed Ginger in place on his dick as she came down one last time, thoroughly subduing her by adjusting himself to sit up straighter.

Ginger was so horny though, she continued grinding lightly on his cock as he held her in place. She looked down at Icy, giggled, then spoke, "You'd better stop, you're driving him nuts!" But really, she was enjoying how much more primal the act had got him.

Icy chuckled and flirtatiously replied, "You're right, I don't want him to cum yet, after all..." So, she let her tongue trail upward, away from his balls, past his barely exposed shaft—which was almost completely buried in Ginger—until her tongue danced over her exposed clit and labia.

"The sooner you cum, the sooner he can fuck me," she taunted, as she twirled her tongue around her sister's rose.

When Cioccolata heard Ginger's moans and could see Icy more visibly in his field of view, his dick took a slight jolt inside of Ginger. In an awe filled reverie, he lingered with the idea of this being his vanilla reward after months of dungeon play. He loosened his grip on Ginger, allowing her to resume her riding, but it was now much more toned down, as she was clearly distracted. It worked well enough for him, as he needed to attempt to pace himself and calm down.

He decided to help Ginger along, so he pulled her back closer, cupping her big breasts, and she readjusted by propping one leg, and then the other into a locust position. Icy leaned in closer as well to adjust to the new position, and she placed her hands on Cioccolata's knees. Her breast grazed over him slightly, as she continued sucking and nipping on Ginger's clit.

Staying within Icy's range, Ginger bounced on his dick again but with short strokes. Her moans were wilder, more primal than ever. It was clear she was going to cum, as she relentlessly panted, "Oh—Oh! Oh! Ahhh! Ahhhh! Oh! Ah! Oh..! Oh my god!" Her pussy juice glistened on his dick beautifully, and Icy giggled to all this.

"That's right, come on and cum so I can have him." She teased.

Then Cioccolata decided to take the reins again. He placed his hands under Ginger's inner thighs, right beside her ass cheeks, and adjusted himself just enough for support, then began thrusting his dick in and out, ensuring he didn't pull out for the next thrust until he was planted balls deep in her, until he felt himself brush her spongey cervix. He positioned one of his hands on her hip again, making sure to dig into her bone with his fingers, while the other gripped her ass as he pulled back on it for each stroke.

And all this was what finally did Ginger in, her fervent moans took on a scream, until the room was hot only with her pants and she could be heard screaming his name with one big bang.

It was a good thing that Cioccolata was such an emotionally unattached man, a complete psychopath, or he probably would have been so moved to cum himself. As exquisite as it was hearing his name moaned or screamed like that, it seemed a wonder to him the alias was not chosen specifically for sexuality. Even in the face of all the primal urges of a stallion, he retained his nut.

As Ginger quivered on him, he began thinking about how much tighter, naturally, Caramella's pussy was. She was an amateur, so he would have to teach her how to ride him like this, but once he did that, he would be set for life.

_What a wonderful life… _he thought in ecstasy. His perfect slave, and seven other women. Maybe a second favorite too? Why Cioccolata was so autistic over having eight slaves exactly, could only be answered once one was able to find out how many licks it took to get to the center of a tootsie pop—the world may never know.

In this dwelling on these thoughts, not counting the hot pussy he was submerged in, he did not notice, yet again, Icy and her sneaky antics. Now, she was begging to crawl up on the lounge with him, while Ginger panted out her lingering orgasm.

Ginger's legs came down from the locust position she was just in and came to a straddle at his outer thighs. She began readjusting herself, but not to the point that she was lifting herself off his cock. In fact, she left him planted in her still, only moving slightly to savor the lingering sensations of her swollen clit. She began rubbing her clit, biting her lips as she squeezed out these last sensations, and in doing so, she too, did not notice Icy climbing up ever so quietly onto the lounge. But she noticed soon enough.

Cioccolata was pulled out of his thoughts and noticed Icy as soon as she neared his shoulder on the lounge, and her body slid against Ginger's who also was alerted. As soon as his eyes locked into Icy's again, the look in her dark orbs screamed with the desire to fuck, egging his primal desire for release. He would have been more than happy to finish it with Ginger alone, but two heads were better than one.

And soon as she was practically touching him with her body, she placed her palms flat on his chest and began unbuttoning his blouse even further, to the last button. She ran her hands over his bare abs, his wide chest, feeling its stone solid warmth, astonished and eager over what she saw and felt.

And her lips closed in, until they hovered over his, whispering, "Fuck me now, _please_, Cioccolata. I can't wait any longer." She thereby let her full, purple lips collide softly with his, where he stole, sucked and nibbled until she was moaning into his mouth.

He pondered on her boldness, though it may have only been the alcohol and coke talking for her. Something, just barely visible, was more reserved in Icy than in Ginger. So perhaps, in her natural state, she was more so.

Icy then laid herself out on the lounge, legs parted, one of her bent calves touching Ginger, with the opposite foot gliding up his shoulder. She had obviously already removed her heels. His eyes helplessly darted to the meat of her pussy in her white thongs, just dying to see it under the silken heart.

Her thin fingers ran over it, circling her clit, and she slipped them inside and began rubbing in a slow, circular motion. His eyes traced up her body from there, up her navel, admiring the straps around her waist, and those perfect sized breasts, who were barely covered adequately, the bit of strap coverings begging to be shoved away, revealing everything… and when his eyes climbed further, settling at her neck, his eyes flashed, and the urge awakened in him.

A vision of her lying just like this, except shackled, in the dungeon, flashed through his mind's eye. She belonged there, he knew, and she would be his. With that, the urge to inflict pain took ahold of him. He really did want to hurt her! But he knew everything had to be paced out, and if he could not show her the _real _Cioccolata yet, then he would just have to settle for rough sex, for now.

When his eyes slowly reached past her neck, over her defined jawline and full on into her face, her slutty eyes had mistaken the gleaming look in his to be purely sexual lust, perhaps more. She didn't know who this man was, and so her passion for him schlepped her further along the track of carnal longing and enamoring visions. Really, and surprisingly, it was longer than Ginger that she slept alone.

Cioccolata adjusted his legs, then shifted his weight, straightening himself in an urge to get Ginger off his dick. It was clear to him that these women, despite a good intention, had something of a rivalry going on. He had thought upon the matter, it obviously didn't displease him; but he thought the end result in it all would be truly comical. After making their lives hell, would they really be so infatuated with him anymore, he wondered? Or would they develop Stockholm syndrome twice as strong as Caramella and Nocciola?

Ginger took the hint, though from the look on her face, reluctantly. She crawled off him, thereby leaning at the fold of the lounge. She was now weary, weak on the knees, but still alert enough to watch interestedly.

Cioccolata wasted no time as he removed the soiled condom. Icy's other foot, was now only on his lap, close to his crotch; but he had no particular foot fetish either, so he was unbothered. He reached into his front pocket of his jacket on the table for the other condom, he perfectly brought two. He didn't put it on yet, his dick was slightly limp now. As he retrieved this, he felt Icy's foot inch closer to his crotch, until her toes rubbed against his bare cock. In response, he took her other foot at his shoulder in his hand and drew it close to his mouth. He looked down at her on the lounge, laying there still playing with her clit, regarding him as if he were a lover already…

He kissed the soft outer skin of her midfoot, toward the ankle, ran kisses upward to her ankle, then back down. He watched her reaction, seeing her switch from rubbing her clit to holding and squeezing both of her titties before him. She bit down on her purple lip and moaned. His eyes admired how her thick black pigtails spread out and arrayed her upper silhouette.

He kissed the balls of her feet, and once reaching her toes, began sucking on them starting from her middle toe. He did so passionately, as if he truly enjoyed it, which was in some type of contradiction of him _not _having a foot fetish.

Ginger watched longingly, noticing with some envy the quality of attention he gave to Icy. Despite that, the act still turned her on, giving her future ideas…

Cioccolata ran his teeth along the skin as he pulled each toe from his mouth, giving the most attention to the big toe. Icy giggled at one point, and reflexively began trying to pull her foot away. When she did, Cioccolata still held firm, but he smirked in response, chuckled, and shifted his weight to leaning upon one knee on the lounge, the other foot connected to the floor. He was tall, so he had to level himself properly, but it was very doable, and the support of one foot, and a knee on the lounge outside her thigh was all that he needed.

Icy's eyes perked open more when she saw him getting into position, and a dark anticipation filled the black, shiny eyes of hers. He urged her to lift her body up, and he thereby placed one of the lounge pillows under her, propping her crotch up to level his more, giving him somewhat of a perfect lithotomic view.

He bent the leg he was previously using to suck her toes over his shoulder, and now, the best for last.

Donning for her the pet name of kitten, he assured her smoothly that he'd have a look at the prize between her thighs.

His hand traveled down her stomach and naval, past the straps on her waist, and with the utterance of a sheepish moan from her, he pushed the silken material of her white thongs aside.

Well, it wasn't as good as he had anticipated, and he had rather hoped for better. Her pussy was smaller in appearance in comparison to Ginger's, but her inner labia was the type that was always visible past the majora. At the very least, it wasn't visible by too much. The more it was, the worse in his "professional" opinion. But at a time like this, this preference of his was neither here nor there. Her legs were open, so he was going to put his dick in regardless. And so, he tore open the wrapper to the condom and slide it on.

He rubbed his thumb over her brownish pink clit, ejecting a moan from her again, and bringing her to squeeze her breasts more. With the thought of her bold request to him previously in mind, he decided to tease her a bit.

He pressed the tip of his dick at her opening, producing a sharp inhale from her, but he pulled out as soon as less than a half an inch of him was in. From there, he slapped his hardened dick down on her clit, while squeezing her inner thigh, the one now hooked over the leg which was balanced on the floor.

She jumped from the pressure of the nerves he hit, producing a surprised squeak from her throat. She gripped his thigh at the outside of hers, and pleaded, "Oh, _please_, Cioccolata…" she moaned.

He smiled deviously down at her, letting out a single guttural chuckle, as he from there circled the head of his dick at her entrance. He could feel how wet she was; how wet she must have been for a while now while watching Ginger ride him.

"This is what you get for teasing me, you little _slut._" He taunted, as he pressed his palm into her belly, into her diaphragm, lingering at her breastbone, where he hastily shoved aside the barely concealing lingerie. He revealed her perfect, moderately fatty tits, erect brown nipples. All the while he rubbed the anterior of his cock between her pussy lips all in torment. Her body squirmed there beneath him, soaking in the tiny bit of pleasure, her body trying to take anything it could get.

She sensed that he was intentionally teasing her, and she flirted back, "I'm sorry, _Cioccolataa..._" She dragged out his name and continued, "Would you please just fuck me, daddy?"

His only response to this, however, was his large hand which then climbed past her chest, after pulling at her nipples, to her bare, slender neck. His fingers wrapped around it and pulled her immediately into his force. On the same token, he then and there slammed his dick into her opening, ushering forth a muffled, choked gasp from Icy.

"Asking me nicely goes far with me, you understand?" He remarked to her now, but the grip he held on her neck left her with no way to answer. But she didn't need to, her body spoke for her; her legs opening wider around him, the other leg hooking around him tighter, as if she didn't want to be disconnected from him in the slightest.

"Daddy's going to punish you now for being a dirty girl," He groaned. She regarded him in a pleasurable distress, one of her eyes squeezed shut, the feel of his long cock entering sharply was only a prelude for what was to come. Just when she squeezed her walls around his girth, acclimating to the depth and soaking pleasure, he maddeningly fucked her, and she twisted one of her arms around, gripping the side of the lounge for support.

His view over her was splendid, he watched the way her breasts shook up and down, watched his dick as he pulled himself out so much, making her feel the entirety of his length for each quick stroke, the look of her tormented face as she focused on air from her constricted airways.

After just a minute and a half of choking her during this romp, he let her tender throat go, and he prioritized his hands to hold her hips steady against him; one hand gripped the thigh of the leg he had over his shoulder, the other on her opposite hip, squeezing her ass into the folds of his tight grip.

Now her titties were bouncing without restraint, the straps of the bralette only grazing past them, her entire demeaner, along with how Cioccolata took her, looked to be in a quick frenzy. She crossed her one arm over the bottom of her breasts, holding them closer as she cried out from the ferocity of the banging. It was, at first in pleasure—her purple lips produced sonorous moans in a steady rhythm which only seemed to aid the glow and ambience of their lair. But soon enough, she felt his force climbing, his dick more and more hitting the neck of her uterus, and she began crying out in more than just pleasure.

"Auuughh! Nnngh! Oh, Cioccolata! Wait, w-wait! _Ow!_ It hurts! Stop!" She gasped, then lifted herself up on her elbows, watching him with eyes begging for mercy.

But he didn't stop his pace, her thighs slapped hard onto his again and again as he reeled her hips in over his dick, functioning as the hook. He gave her only some relief when he repositioned himself, closing her thighs over each other and pressing them down forward over her, and he angled himself atop them, leaning above her now. The position made his dick feel like it was penetrating her deeper, so she cried out again—while at the same time, the way her thighs were closed tight, made her lips suck up the vibrations, spread out to her labia, and stimulated her clitoris. Before she knew it, the pleasure was just enough at the level to make the slight jabs of his dickhead bearable, along with the position change as well as her pussy adjusting to the pressure.

Her clit was, in this position, much out of her reach, so she played with her nipples and moaned Cioccolata's name again and again, in quite a contrast to her previous outburst. She began to love how when he slammed into her, the impact of the collision rung deep in her body, giving the impression that her bones shook, and she felt the flutter in her ribs. Any man who fucked a woman hard enough could replicate this sensation in her, but when it comes from the right man, it's even better. Cioccolata still looked powerful and menacing, even without his war paint and lipstick. The right man, the right effect. It was psychological, and it would drive a woman wild in combination.

Ginger, who loved rough sex— whose curiosity was already piqued at the mention of him having a "dungeon," watched in complete awe, wishing that it were her; almost wishing she had not invited her sister in. She noted the difference in skin types between her sister and Cioccolata. Cioccolata being of a golden tan, and her sister being at least a couple shades darker in a clear olive complexion. The difference in tone was incredibly sexy to her, just as her lightly tanned, but otherwise fair skin was to his in the act.

Ginger felt so much in a trance that she hardly spoke throughout this act the way Icy did with her, she simply noted and admired everything, thinking, "Oh my god, he's fucking her so hard, so fast, so good. _God, I wish that were me…_" She felt herself getting horny all over again, to the point that she could cum again, just watching.

Finally, Ginger got off the lounge, and, after testing her spent knees, walked over to where Icy was on the lounge, then kneeled to her side. Once she did, she was greatly pleased in the decision. She had a nice view of Cioccolata fucking her. She began getting so turned on, she almost couldn't look at him anymore, especially when he acknowledged her, so she turned her attention to Icy, nibbling on her ear to tease her as she cried out endlessly.

Ginger also began playing with Icy's tits, pulling her nipples out and twisting them. Icy seemed far too preoccupied in getting fucked, but when Ginger began circling her tongue around the darkened tissue surrounding Icy's nipple, the half-ravaged girl arched her back in response.

But Cioccolata's pacing intensified yet again, as he began pumping into the stripper like a machine. He fucked her so mercilessly, it was as if he were taking her life force away from her, only feeding his relentless stamina.

"Ohh! Ohh! Ahh! Oh, fuck!" she grinded her teeth and moaned out, "_Fuck! Cioccolata!"_

Ginger bit her lip in response of her sisters quaking pleasure, never having seen her get so into it, with genuine zeal. All these details weren't to say that Icy wasn't as loose as her sister; she was just as much of a whore as Ginger, just not as bold. Her desires were more under wraps, but clear by the slutty look in her black eyes as she regarded the man above her as Zeus. Icy was the type of quiet whore on the low, the kind that any quality of man can sweet talk, spit game and lie, without any real effort—and she would throw her legs open for them.

The reasons regarding Icy's promiscuity was a consequence of not only poor upbringing but a lack of developed self-esteem and interpersonal skills, whereas Ginger's was more attributed to a matter of environment and circumstance, not that the said factors for Icy didn't also apply to Ginger. However, this distinction between the roots of their whoredom correlated with a relatively high body count which Ginger possessed over Icy. Cioccolata may have only made the twelfth man Icy had slept with.

True enough, both women made their way around the block regarding how many men they had slept with. There comes a time for a woman where the amount of experience she has blurs the lines rather than builds an insightful erotic portfolio. These women, it could be said, already went beyond their thresholds in the matter. They came to a point where not many men could satisfy them either from sexual prowess, fortune or compatibility. Cioccolata quite simply blew the women off the map in how he pleased them, and it wasn't by accident.

Ginger saw the way Icy kept shaking her head from the left to the right, her lips open forming a perfect "o" from which her squeaky moans rang out, and so Ginger now used this time to tease her, as Icy had previously done her.

"Oh, is somebody ready to cum?" She snickered as she shook Icy's tits more than they were already being done naturally.

Icy's thick black eyebrows shot up and folded over her shut eyes as if in true distress as she cried, "_Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh my god..! Keep fucking me...!" _Her pig tails were nowloose, messed up and frizzed out.

Cioccolata was enjoying seeing Ginger tease Icy so much. He was stricken with an idea other than his selfish objective in the matter, as the usual case, so he began swiveling his hips around, pulling around and away, tapering off to the point that her body attempted to reel him back in. Her position, however, was too limiting, and so she found herself at his mercy.

Icy reacted in a heated madness, her desire for release was blinding. She begged Cioccolata to keep fucking her, as her pussy now was so wet, her juices saturated her asshole. However, Cioccolata regarded her dismissively and continued the pacing.

Ginger seemed to go in heat with excitement as well, her envy drove her to seek out further torment on her sister. She leaned half of her torso on the lounge, atop of Icy, breast to breast, and began licking and nibbling Icy's neck. Soon she was kissing her lips too, and once engaged, Ginger appeared to be the dominant one. She twisted Icy's tentative and gentle tongue in her mouth, guiding it along, leaving her sister submitting to the direction she was shown. Ginger twisted her face and dug in deeper as she fondled her own fat tits, which were already smashed over Icy's, looking like a real harlot.

Cioccolata seen enough; his dick was steel now, so he gave up his teasing and resumed hammering her. Icy's eyes shot open to the returning pace, and she moaned into Ginger's mouth, who now grabbed her by the wrists and pinned her. She smashed her lips against hers with more force, ensuring Icy was subdued not only from Cioccolata, but by Ginger herself in a collaborative effort to distress the young Sicilian stripper.

And Icy was certainly experiencing just that, as she wavered closer and closer to the pinnacle, she tried desperately to escape Ginger's lips, who only subdued her with more force at the more she struggled. Ginger bit her lips for each futile effort, and spoke into her mouth deviously, "Come on, Icy, stop being a bitch and _take his dick._"

Cioccolata was grinding his teeth visibly just seeing it all, his nut was right there, and he began panting like a beast as he pounded her walls in long, fast strokes. Ginger's torment on Icy that he witnessed unleashed the beast in him. There was a mental note in his head to force these women to fuck each other when they became his slaves. Ginger obviously was the dominant one as opposed to Icy.

He smashed Icy's thighs against him as he kept taking her, only growing more ruthless when he heard Icy screaming a mixture of pain stricken and pleasurable moans all into Ginger's mouth. Cioccolata was getting so close and losing control, that he extended his arm to the arm of the lounge close beside him, gripping it as he moved in to empty himself, and with it, all that could be heard in the room for the remaining minute was the wet slap of her ass against him, her dismayed moans, and his bellowing groans.

Ginger was getting a greater rise from being able to see Cioccolata lose control like this. The most exciting part was the look on face, as though he was in a solid fury just to release. Her eyes worshipped his tight, built body, and what she could see of his bare chest behind his open blouse. It was a wonderful perspective for her, increasing her wild fixation upon him. He was just completely irresistible for her; she longed to lick all of the sweat off his body…

And then as her eyes adored him, she noticed he shifted his position slightly, giving himself more leverage, and sat up more. He thrusted Icy's legs open now, as he wildly fucked her and groaned his last, emptying his nut. Icy's moans rivaled his quite a bit, as she now felt herself about to fall off the edge and into true bliss.

When Icy began pleading yet again that Cioccolata stay in her, to keep fucking her, his pace did not hasten, and he simply looked upon her with a crooked smirk. Icy didn't understand his indifference, so she pleaded louder, crying, "_Please, Cioccolata! _I'm going to cum..!"

"Is that so…?" He mumbled, tilting his head as if he were in concern for her. But instead, he pulled himself out. Icy gasped in mortification, her black eyes wider than they'd ever been whilst being fucked, and her eyes trailed him in disbelief as he seated himself back in his original spot before this began. He flung his arms over the top of the lounge, the cut of it to his left making a downward incline into the cushion which Icy laid on her back.

His blouse was there opened more with his arms spread out like this, Ginger took note, and crawled, still on the floor, over between his legs. Cioccolata made a gesture with his finger, directing Ginger to take care of his dick. She began rolling the condom off, then vacuuming his dick clean in her eager mouth. Cioccolata let his head hang in complete relaxation and groaned when he felt Ginger's lips close around his cock tightly, boy he loved getting a thorough cock cleaning after a good fuck.

"Ahh, _bueno, sì_… You just love being daddy's girl. _Mmm._" He commented in delight.

Icy on the other hand, wasn't feeling good about any of this at all. She looked on them both in humiliation, slighted even by her own sister.

Just as she was thinking how unfair it was, she saw Ginger look over at her, blue eyes to black, and as she continued sucking Cioccolata off, Icy could see in her sister's eyes a look of triumph. She was considering this a victory, and from the looks of it, it was.

Then Icy looked up to Cioccolata instead, and to her surprise, he was already looking at her. He smiled again, then spoke to her.

"What are you looking at _cazzo stuzzicare?_ Hm?" he spoke in a cocky tone. "Here, how about this?" he directed Ginger to reach for a pen in his jacket pocket, and he then retrieved an 100,000-lira bill from his pant pocket and wrote something in cursive across the bill.

This stirred Icy, who was now full attention, Ginger also looked. Then Cioccolata flicked the bill toward Icy, who wasn't far at all on the lounge. She picked up the bill and saw it read, _"Punishment."_ Icy balled the bill in frustration into her bralette, while Cioccolata laughed loudly, clearly overly satisfied with his own joke. Leaving notes for his hits was a method of good fun for him but using it in a situation like this tickled him.

Icy lifted her torso up, and began fixing her bralette, putting her tits neatly back into it, ignoring him completely. She looked down as she did so, more so in shame and defeat than in anger, as she listened to Ginger and Cioccolata talking about what he had just did in mirth, Ginger commenting on it saying, "Teehee! But she took it though!" Ignoring her, Icy began smoothing her wild hair, attempting to fix her pig tails, but she would need to take them out completely in order to do so.

When Cioccolata gauged that she didn't plan on answering, he sweetened his voice and tried again, "I'm only teasing you. You've got a nice pussy, and you looked so sexy getting fucked."

Ginger was licking all over Cioccolata's balls now. Icy tried hard to fight it, but she felt herself getting drawn back into Cioccolata and his charming demeanor. She gave him a side glare and she was busy putting her heels back on, having fixed her thong.

"Come on, talk to me, kitten. You know you _want _to." He tried again, blinking his eyes with enthusiasm.

"I _don't_ want to," she finally remarked in a barely contained pout, "You're not a very nice man, I see—despite how nice you are to Ginger." There was clear jealousy in her tone at the mention at her sister's name.

Ginger began tucking his dick back into his thong now, and then climbed onto his lap yet again, this time facing him. Finally, she took the time of distraction to run her hands freely over Cioccolata's bare chest under the blouse, and when she found his nipples, she leaned in and circled the tip of her tongue around one of them.

Cioccolata acknowledged Ginger's worship of him by sliding his hand up her thigh until he had her ass cheek in his hand.

"_Ah, _don't be mistaken. I'm very nice." He snickered, "but as I said, I had to punish you for being a bad girl."

She looked down again, getting flustered and said nothing.

Cioccolata knew he was wearing on her, so he continued, "So, with that being said," he raised his voice up a note, "if you're a good girl, then I'll reward you, just like your sister; so, it's no need to get jealous. Daddy really likes you too."

And with that she was moved, ready to throw open her legs again. She batted her eyelashes at him, her large brown orbs seeking out his green eyes that she already adored too much; the first thing she noticed on him when she entered the room earlier. Really, this flip-flop nature of hers regarding men stemmed from a lack of a father; the same was true for Ginger, although this fact revealed itself in her in other dysfunctional ways.

Ginger now began licking Cioccolata's underarm, shamelessly licking up any lingering sweat. Cioccolata was surprised but delighted, again remarking to himself how good of a slave she'll serve him. She was marveling at his black underarm hair, as he didn't seem to have much hair elsewhere, and she assumed he shaved his pelvic region.

Cioccolata continued weaning her back to him, "Come over here and I'll tell you how I'll make it up to you."

His voice was a lull, and it reached the same carnal place inside of her, reigniting a feeling in her clitoris. Icy felt herself growing weak to him, she tried to fight it, and that was when she noticed a good way out of it.

"I'll think about it. But I have to use the bathroom first. I'll come back…"

Cioccolata only stared at her in response, but Icy stared back at him deeply, as if to assure him. He wasn't entirely convinced of it, as he was exceptional at reading people. It didn't matter to him however. He knew she suffered a weak resolve, and it would be easy to swoon her again, as he already did now twice.

She stood up finally, and quickly walked out of the room, looking at Cioccolata one last time through the drapes she had gracefully moved, watching his eyes through the sheer material, the glow of the salt lamps casting perfect shadows over his face—highlighting his superior facial bone structure. Ginger was now kissing along his jawline, as if to draw attention to this fact.

And then Icy was gone, and with it, Ginger perked up suddenly, trailing the last of her kissing along his jaw toward his earlobe. She lingered her kiss there, at the side of his prominently high cheekbone, staring into his eyes, which were now downcast, looking at his watch. She noticed immediately, and this worried her.

"You're not going to leave yet, are you daddy?" she asked rather meekly in comparison to how she normally spoke to him.

"I was thinking about it." He stated blankly. As much as he downplayed his concern over the phone with Secco, he _needed _to check his slave…

And so, he rather did need to leave, and she knew it. Now that he had relieved himself, he could think again. He was genuinely concerned for his favorite slave. This was the last phase. He needed to wrap things up with both women, take them home with him, check on Caramella, and put them in the dungeon. He had to juggle both objectives, nothing that was nearly a task for a man of his caliber.

"I really don't want you to leave yet," she whispered with a hint of regret. He felt her hand tug on his blouse, and she balled it in her fist, then continued, "Why don't you stay with us for a little longer? I really wanted to ask you something…"

"Why don't you ask now then, while you have the opportunity." He framed it as if he was rather telling her to ask. He fiddled with the neon green straps of her G-string, twirling his fingers between them. He purposely looked down at them as he did this, and then brought his eyes back up to hers.

Her face was now facing his straight on, and he noticed one of the things he liked in the slave through them. _Adoration_. He thought on this in delight, knowing she had yet another thing checked off on the _Slave Prerequisites. _On the other hand, for the following month he would most likely not see that adoration… but in due time, she'd be enamored with him again. All women did, despite his treatment of them; he knew this very well.

Then he noticed he was slightly slouched with her on him, so he straightened himself. Ginger then placed his hands on her hips, as if to give herself strength to get out what she was going to ask.

"Well…" she pursed her pretty, full, luscious lips as she looked away from him for a moment. Her wavy blonde hair fell over her face a little bit, and she tucked some of it behind her ear.

Cioccolata had no time to waste. "What, kitten?" he coaxed.

She looked at him then, with full eyes and a pout still on her features. She raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth. Closed it, then opened it again asking quietly, "Do you like me more than my sister?"

Cioccolata's smile grew across his face slowly but fully. He freed his hands from her clutches on her hips and ran them further up her sides until he was cupping her breast, and she grabbed them again, holding them in place.

"I do. I like your sister, but I _prefer_ you." For the few times of his life he had told a truth, now was one of them.

She watched his eyes with skepticism. "You're not lying, _are you?"_

He could feel her heart beating now, even beneath those fat mountains of tits. "I'm not lying." He promised this, and it was solid. He then reached for her blonde locks trailing along her spine, pulled them back into his grip, then adding with emphasis, "I love blondes, after all, and…blue eyes."

Her lips were still pursed, but she smiled anyway, eventually to a full cheese, and her eyes twinkled with flattery and triumph. She spoke again, rather serious, "That leaves me something else to ask you then."

She let his hands go, and so he let go of her breast, resting them on her thighs. He extended his fingers over them, and his hands could be laid out fully over her thigh, but not quite. But he knew with Caramella, they would definitely fit over them completely. He briefly hoped again, as he pictured this, that his favorite slave was alright.

"What is it?" he asked, genuinely interested.

She looked down at his hands on her thighs, and then ran her hands up his forearms, along his upper arms, and finally she spoke asking quietly still, but flirtatiously, "Will you be my boyfriend, Cioccolata?"

"How old are you?" he asked, as if age really mattered at this point—as if he hadn't been fucking a 17-year-old a few days ago.

She raised an eyebrow at him, "I'm 25. Icy is 23."

Then Cioccolata responded, "I'll be more than that, for you, little girl. Much, much more…" His eyes penetrated hers now, which seemed to linger and hang on every word.

He continued, his voice as devious as ever, "…If you come back with me, that _dungeon _will be yours, and you will defer to me as Master Cioccolata from there on. But when we are alone…" He now traced her choker at her throat, continuing after the pause, "…You will learn exceedingly quickly what I like, and how to behave. Because, you see, I will mold you into the perfect woman for myself. All your needs and resources will be met, as a good master ought of see to."

He knew, given how strongly she must have felt about him to ask him that, along with her fascination with him telling her he has a dungeon, that all of this would be music to her ears. He could clearly see in her behaviors she wanted to be a slave; she just doesn't know how literally that will become for her.

Ginger regarded him as if she were in a trance, and maybe her high contributed, but he was positive it was from her sheer ecstasy at hearing his words. Even if he were using it as a tool of manipulation, the best part about it was, he was being completely and absolutely honest or his name wasn't Cioccolata.

Now she had blushed full on, and asked demurely, "Is that really true..?"

Cioccolata raised his finger to her full, bottom lip. "Of course, it's true. Why wouldn't daddy want a pretty thing like you in his dungeon?"

_Yes, of course, it is absolutely true. Beautiful women are trophies. _He thought.

Ginger then grabbed his hand, which she already adored so much, and put his finger in her mouth, the one he had placed on her bottom lip, and began sucking it slowly.

When finishing, she simply held his hand with both of hers, messaging his knuckles and looking over them lovingly. As she watched his hand with her bright blue eyes, her glossy pink lips added softly, "I could _die_ to be yours…it's just too _good _to be true."

_Hmm. With that type of dedication, maybe she'll enjoy it after all. _He thought. It was indeed something to wonder at. It got him curious, so he decided to pry into it.

"Tell me then, are you a masochist?"

"Maybe…somewhere on the spectrum… I don't know if I am a hundred percent. But I loved how much you slapped my ass, it's still sore," she chuckled.

As she was replying, Cioccolata was feeling her tit, and when he moved the slingshot to the side, he began squeezing her nipple, the grip between his thumb and index growing progressively tighter.

She at first slightly grimaced, still in pleasure, but soon her brows furrowed in more than discomfort, a genuine look of pain.

"_A-aaaah! Owwwaa!" _she yelped, then grabbed his wrist in reflex. But Cioccolata only absorbed her features and just stared at her menacingly.

He let go, as hard as it was, once he felt his point was made. He spoke. "A woman enjoying her ass being slapped is elementary; soft. How about being flogged, paddled, shocked, sodomized? Knife play? How about hot wax?"

She sighed in relief after he stopped, then replied, with her brows still furrowed, "_What? _No! I haven't done any of that! Well…does anal count?"

_Good. _He thought. He rather hoped she'd done none of it, not because he was happy to introduce her as much as he was to push her beyond her limits.

"_Well," _he breathed with excitement, feeling himself unable to subdue a passionate rant, "I'm of the mentality that one shouldn't simply pull back their hand when placed on a hot burner—we ought of ascend our reflexes. Push our bodies to the limit, even to the extremes of such pain."

But when he looked at Ginger now, he could see she wasn't really feeling it.

With her lips pursed she commented, "If you say so…"

Women were women after all. None he had ever met were capable of much abstract thought, and so, he never saw them as anything more than good company for a man. This was another reason he enjoyed Secco's even more, and that's pretty bad.

He didn't say anything, and Ginger changed the subject then.

"_You know, _I can tell you really liked hurting me like that, you _monster;_ I can feel your dick is all hard again. I guess you're just the _ultimate_ sadist?"

"I'm a monster just for that..? You don't understand the meaning of that word, darling." Fortunately for her, she would know soon enough.

Cioccolata then traced his arms around her waist, pulling her into closer against his body. Ginger placed her hands on his chest for support. When her face was near his, he drew his mouth close to her ear, then whispered, "I _am _the ultimate sadist, yes. And yes, I enjoyed hurting you, and I will enjoy it _much _more when you are my slave. And soon, you'll like it too, because it's what I like. There are _many_ things you don't know about me."

He couldn't help but leave threat in his voice. But it didn't matter. He had won this. He could even feel her now getting wet again. She was his slave already, in body and spirit. He already knew given the way she dressed with her stripper get up, that she was more masochistic than she let on, at the very least, heavily curious on those types of fetishes. All he had to do was break her in.

Ginger on the other hand couldn't believe how much this man had moved her in only a few hours of being together. She even began to wonder if she could fall in love with him. More than that, she wondered if he could be _the one! _And with that, she lost all sense completely as she was swept up into an infatuation which he had orchestrated from the start. But Cioccolata, to her, was so mysterious, and this made him even more attractive to her. Not counting, for the most very basic reasons, she knew he was loaded. And he even said he would take care of her _completely. _He was even willing to be her sugar daddy; a fatherless girl's dream come true!

She put her hand on his face, and with real emotion in her voice she breathed into his lips, "I can't wait…to know everything about you."

He gripped his hair yet again, pulled it all into his hand, slightly yanking on it until her face was pulled back, and he replied, "Oh, you will_." _ And from there, he kissed her lips, locking her to him permanently.

Time wise, it must have already been fifteen minutes at least since Icy had gone, and this worried him. Was it possible she changed her mind? He needed her to come back; the sooner she did, the sooner he could leave. He needed Icy to come home with him as well, not only did he want her as his slave too, but Icy would notice that Ginger would never be coming back. There was no choice in the matter, whether Cioccolata wanted her as a slave or not… Her fate was sealed the moment Ginger introduced her to him.

But he did see the benefit in having her as a slave. They would be able to continue having ménage à trois.

Cioccolata broke their kiss to ask, finally, "Where is your sister?"

"…She said she'd come back," she commented as if she were in a dream world, where only they existed, and certainly, it seemed that way. She didn't want to think about Icy, and it became clear in her tone, "Why? Won't we leave soon?"

"I want her to come too. I told her I will make it up to her, so I will."

"_Why?_ I thought…"

He cut her off, "Because it would please me. Don't you want to please your master? Isn't that really why you brought her to me in the first place?"

She was silent for a moment, as she was really turning it over in her head. "I… you're right." She submitted.

"I am. So be a good girl and bring her. I'll be waiting outside in my car, it's the white one."

She seemed alarmed by how sudden he said this, but she had no time to talk as he began moving himself and her off him. As he stood up there on, he began zipping up his fly, quickly buttoning up his blouse, then he put his beige blazer back on. He fixed his tie finally, and with that, he looked just as groomed as when he entered this room that had been previously transformed into a sex sauna.

"Alright," He commented, with a raised tone that meant business, "I'm going out now. I'll be waiting for you two." He looked at her for confirmation.

"Yes… Master Cioccolata." She smiled, regaining her flirtatious glare.

"Good slave. We'll have more fun tonight, okay?" His tone now was as sweet as his alias, as he regarded her seated on the lounge, her tall, beautiful tanned skin, wavy dark blonde hair, voluptuous tits, a perfectly skinny waist, fat ass, thick thighs, well-toned calf muscles due to the nature of her work, beautiful pouty lips; better than Sophia Loren…perfect. A real trophy, and truly a sight for sore eyes.

He let his eyes flatter her, as she watched them yet again trail over her body. He exhaled finally, not trying to get his dick started again.

The attention seemed to revive Ginger's spirits, leaving no traces that she was ever bothered. She lifted herself from the white velvet lounge she spent at least a couple of hours occupying, and with her sexy clear stilettos, she sauntered over to the object of her desire. She laid her hands on his chest a last time, before he was ready to exit, and pecked his lips, which were almost leveled with his; she was 5'7 strictly without the heels.

Her nails dug into his blazer as she spoke, "I'll be a fast as I can," She assured him with an eager smile. "So, wait for me, please."

Cioccolata during the time she said this was fondling her ass, up and down and in circles. He couldn't get enough of it. Never mind her fat tittles pressed on his chest, though he enjoyed that too.

"Of course I'll wait…" he breathed. Giving her ass a final squeeze, he urged her to exit the room with him. There in the hall, they parted, going in opposite directions. The bouncer that was standing by in the hall earlier was no longer here. Ginger turned to watch Cioccolata disappear back into the black mass of the club, an especially dim show going on now. She wouldn't be able to make out if Icy was out there. She admired Cioccolata's tall-framed silhouette, his nonchalant seeming gait as he crept out of sight, then turned her attention to the locker room, hoping to find her sister there.

She did indeed find Icy, who was gawking at herself in an affixed vertical body mirror. She was seen adjusting her bralette and pulling up the straps to her thong. Ginger quickened her pace, whispering her sister's name as she came up behind her. Icy was only a bit startled, but turned to face her, leaving no trace of any surprise. Icy did wonder however, if her sister was still with Cioccolata, and if she was trying to fetch her back.

Ginger regarded her sister now with agitation. She spoke, "Why didn't you come back? It must have been about twenty minutes since you left."

Icy tried to appear confident, but she hardly felt that way since she left. She rolled her black eyes, sucked her teeth and stated, "I changed my mind is all."

"_Rude_! Anyway, I need you to do me a favor, and it's an important one." Ginger then stumbled over to her locker, taking out her purse and change of clothes, along with her medium-brown, mink fur coat.

Icy wondered what it was now, but she had a feeling it had to do with that man again. Ginger threw on her clothes like there was no tomorrow, completely oblivious to the fact that she would never again pick out her own clothes if she proceeded in her plans.

"_What?" _ Icy's eyes glowered at her sister, who was still busy with her clothes, hardly looking at her.

When Ginger was half decent, she stepped toward Icy again, emphasizing, "_Please, please," _with deep sincerity in her blue eyes, "Come with me to _his _house."

"What!?" Icy exclaimed. _How brazen of her!_

"N-no! I wish I hadn't even gone in that room in the first place, let alone _that." _She looked at her older sister in disbelief, and continued, "That's dangerous, too. _Why_ would you want to _do that?"_

"_Oh, Icy,"_ she pleaded, "You're just _mad_! He was only joking with you! Why do you have to take it so personally? And don't act like we haven't gone home with men before!"

Icy averted her eyes now so that Ginger could not see her get upset at the mention. The truth was that she did really like Cioccolata, but she felt so slighted by him especially when it was ever clear to her that he preferred Ginger. And Ginger's last words couldn't even compare—previous men they had at least spent the day with before doing so.

Ginger continued her pleading when she saw Icy did not say anything. "Icy, don't you like him though? He's really so nice. I _know _he's a sweetheart."

"I don't know about that…" Icy mumbled, she didn't get that vibe at all from Cioccolata. Not a bit. Really, she had no idea what had gotten into her older sister. It was usually her who laughed off men and gave Icy advice on them. It seemed to her that her older sister somehow had gotten herself entangled in a fatal attraction.

Ginger countered her, "I talked to him, I know. I felt it. And don't forget what I told you earlier, I'm sure he must be a gangster. Can you imagine how much _money _he's gotta have?" her tone raised with urgency. But her suspicion was contradictory to her previous statement; exemplifying how head over heels she must have been.

"_I know but_—we make great enough money _here._" She attempted to come across firm, but Ginger shot down her weak attempts yet again. Ginger earlier telling her how loaded he had to have been was the main reason Icy agreed to meet him in the first place!

"I've just made from him tonight what I would only make in two weeks!" she put her hands on her hips, looking as though she was becoming exceedingly inpatient, then continued, "I'm not going to miss _my_ chance, and he's not going to be happy if I tell him that you don't want to come…" Her tone trailed off in distress, and now she looked down.

But the last line suddenly struck a nerve in Icy. She wondered then, and she was thrown into her primality.

"Not happy? Why? _He _wants me to come with you two?" she asked skeptically, but a hint of anxious hope in her tone.

"Yes! Of course he does!" Ginger replied honestly. She did feel rather jealous by this fact, but right now, it was obviously to the advantage. "He told me he wanted you to come with us, he actually insisted on it, Icy. And he said he wants to make it up to you."

And just like that, the tables had turned. Icy's defenses dropped, as if she were back in the room with Cioccolata and he was sweet talking her. Her panties metaphorically, and in the future, literally fell. Her black eyes widened, now it was written on her face. Her eyes bored into Ginger's, trying to find the truth, but as it was the truth to Ginger, so it was to Icy.

She swallowed as her heart fluttered to the thought. If he liked Ginger so much, why would he not be content with leaving with just her? Why would he insist upon it? There was no other explanation in her mind. Either way, now she was just much too tempted, far too intrigued to just stay here, never to find out…

She knew it was true, but she asked anyway, "Is that true?"

Ginger affirmed her in this, nodded her head sincerely, then adding as further incentive, "Come on…what do you have to lose?"

Now Icy had completely succumbed to Ginger's urgings. She walked over to her own locker, and she was just as urgently as Ginger was previously, removing her items.

Ginger was overjoyed, so she hugged her sister then, thanking her and assuring her of the great time they'll have. She quickly left the room to grab all the money on the glass end table in the room they had all previously shared, not realizing that by her will and insistence—she were pulling her precious sister into the very burial plot she had readied for herself.


End file.
